


The Boy Who Played With Fire

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Dragon!John, Dragonlock, Fluff and Angst, Human!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Transformation, Violence, forced transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers John is a dragon, hiding his true self from society.<br/>--</p><p>It’s a movement that occurs in a heartbeat. His hand already on Sherlock’s sleeve he hauls him in a not so graceful movement into his chest and the glamour shatters.</p><p>John reacts with pure, unadulterated instinct that sets the room ablaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John wrings his hands once, thumb scraping over his palm as he glances side to side. As much as he likes a bit of danger, sometimes Sherlock cuts it too close.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. What is taking so long?” He whispers, risking a glance away from the street. The detective is knelt on the pavement, calmly working the lock on the door.

Sherlock huffs, “You do realize this is a double cylinder deadbolt? Keyed on both sides? Not the usual easy pick.”

“Maybe we should find another door? Or maybe a-“

“Ah.” Sherlock says, swiftly standing in one smooth movement, waving towards the door as it swings open. “See?”

John visibly relaxes but not by much, surveying the street before entering the building.

Sherlock takes a key out of his pocket. “Knew I didn’t have to use that.” He mutters to himself, as he shuts the door behind them.

John freezes. “ _You had the sodding key the whole time_?” He hisses, mindful of being quiet but wanting to unleash his outrage.

Sherlock shrugs, “Wanted to see if I could do it.” He replies conversationally. Taking in John’s tense appearance, he adds. “Oh will you just _relax_?”

“The hell are we doing here Sherlock?” John asks as he rubs his temple.

“Through the hallway and up the stairs,” he says, flapping his hand vaguely in front of him. “His office should be on the east corner. We get the file, we leave.”

“Why did we even bother with all that? This place looks condemned.” John says as they begin to walk the hall.

“Renovation.” Sherlock says. “No security system, if you don’t count the armed guards.”

“ _What_?”

“Oh we’re _fine_. No one should be in this part of the building.”

He follows along in Sherlock's footsteps, practically holding his breath.

“Are you going to tell me the specifics of this case or am I just supposed to take my usual leap of faith with you?” John grumbles.

Sherlock merely grins at him, an oddly boyish expression.

Well, looks like he was in for the usual shitty non-explanation. Blind faith it is. He feels like an idiot, but that’s familiar by this point. Sherlock leaves him in the dark more than half the time anyways.

They make their way down the hall and up the stairs, heading east, coming across a large office. Sherlock surveys the room with his usual scrutinizing gaze, eyes adjusting to the added light from the street lamps into the darkened room.

John remains vigilant at the door and watches as Sherlock takes out a small key—filing cabinet, he notes absently. Thank whatever Gods that be Sherlock didn’t decide to attempt to pick the drawers.

Whatever he’s looking for, it only takes a few minutes. Sherlock shuts the cabinet with a small squeak and begins to leaf through the paperwork.

“Hurry,” John whispers, glancing over his shoulder. “You got it? Let’s go.”

“Watch the door.” Sherlock says, flipping pages.

He'd really rather not watch the door, since that's the direction guards will shoot first, but he continues.

There’s a _clang_ far off in the distance, and while outwardly John doesn’t so much as twitch, his innards make a bend.

“Fuck’s sake Sherlock. Let’s _GO_.”

Sherlock frowns at him, holding up the file in his hand. “These have been planted. This isn’t what we came for.” He glares at the cabinet. “Someone has been through these.” He says in an irritable voice. He sounds like a librarian, scowling at the fantasy novel someone dumped in non-fiction. “These don’t belong here.”

"Oh Christ." John closes his eyes, and then opens them fast to take another very careful look down the hall. 

After what feels like glacial ages, Sherlock makes a satisfied sound. "Got them." 

"Good. Maybe we don't have to die tonight." 

Sherlock's folding papers and stuffing them into the inside pocket of his coat. "No one's going to die. Stop being so dramatic." 

There's another sound outside, louder. John's heart jumps so high he's pretty sure it made his eyes bulge out. He glances at Sherlock, who hasn’t heard it, only his own heightened hearing making it out.

"Somebody's coming." 

Sherlock regards him expressionlessly. "Really?" 

" _Really_!" 

"Are you certain?"

“ _Sherlock_!” 

Sherlock nods as John backs away from the door. 

"Come here." Sherlock still sounds so infernally calm. But his movements are fast, precise, like a surgeon as he starts working on the windowpane, dismantling the latches.  
John just stands there when Sherlock hisses again, "Come _HERE_!"

He fumbles over, and Sherlock motions with his head. “Start on the left.”

“What? Jump? We are three flights up.”

“There’s bushes.” Sherlock says with a shrug.

There’s another noise, gentle shuffling, clothing on clothing, someone sneaking around the hallway. Too low for Sherlock to have heard but John grips Sherlock's wrist and pulls him to his knees, ducking behind the desk.

“What-“ John slaps his palm across Sherlock’s mouth and shakes his head. Sherlock frowns but he stills. The detective looks calm, eyes focused on the flooring, no doubt checking for signs of shifts of light through the cracks of the frame but John can hear his blood quickening through his veins, the change of adrenaline in the air. That isn’t good.

“Do you have a plan?” He mouths and Sherlock doesn’t respond. He tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve, and the detective looks over to him again.

“I don’t hear anything.” Sherlock mouths back and John strains his senses. Someone is there. Two someones. Metallic. Powder. Guns. He holds onto Sherlock’s sleeve and just shakes his head again.

“Don’t move.” He mouths and Sherlock only stares at him.

There’s a click before the door explodes.

It’s a movement that occurs in a heartbeat. His hand already on Sherlock’s sleeve he hauls him in a not so graceful movement into his chest and the glamour shatters.

John reacts with pure, unadulterated instinct that sets the room ablaze.

* * *

 

When Sherlock was ten, he saw his first dragon.

A wildling, which made it more impactful. A feral creature out in the wood that he instantly knew he shouldn’t have seen. Emerald scales, leathered wings embedded with jewels that were so impressed into skin it was if they were embossed.

He stood frozen on a rotting log, not even realizing he was holding his breath and the beast lifted its slender neck, curling around the bend of a willow tree and watching him carefully.  With an exhale of warm breath that billowed out like great steam into the autumn air the creature tucked its large wings and turned, understanding the young boy was not a threat and began to make its way back into the depths.

There was a roar and Sherlock jumped as the willow burst into flames.

Sherlock hadn’t seen anything more amazing in his life.

* * *

 

John winced as Sherlock flinched at his touch, smoothing the salve over the detective’s forearm.

“Sorry,” he said with a grimace, gentling his movements. “Better?” He asked, as he started to unbundle the gauze.

Sherlock didn’t look up at him. “You’re a dragon.”

John didn’t respond right away, starting to wind the strip around Sherlock’s arm.

“Yes.” He said simply, giving a brief, apprehensive smile.

“I didn’t know. I should have known.” Sherlock snapped, sounding astoundingly irritated. Not at all the tone John had been expecting.

“How is that?” John asked.

“I have studied dragons. Even through glamours they have facial ticks, subtle head movements, even their speech patterns are distinctive.” John pulled his hands back as Sherlock threw his arm up in the air.

“Easy. I’m trying to patch you up.” John admonished.

“That woman. What was her name? The one with the ridiculous snow globe collection.  Doesn’t matter. She killed her boss. I knew. Pointed it out straight away. Dragon. Obvious. Her eye movements, the imprint of her blouse. Everything!”

“Yes, yes.” John said. “I know, bloody brilliant you are. Now will you sit _still_?”

Sherlock stood, disregarding John as he paced, gauze trailing behind him. John rubbed his eyes, sighing. Fantastic.

“I would have _known_ , John. I can’t possibly be losing my touch with this.” The last sentence said to himself with a horrified quality.

“So what? Everything that just happened and you’re only upset that you didn’t figure it out earlier?”

“Perhaps I should be upset, if only for the fact you didn’t tell me.” Sherlock tapped his finger to his chin, turning to John. “I told you my idiosyncrasies prior to move in. Seems rather rude you didn’t tell me yours.”

John blinked, mouth agape. “You told me you play violin and don’t talk for days. _This_ ,” John stated, pointing a finger down at the table. “Is entirely different.”

Sherlock shrugged, before noticing the bundle of gauze. “Well this won’t do. Were you finished?” He asked, staring at it.

“No, so come here.” John said with a sigh, as Sherlock moved over to him, throwing himself into the chair.

“So, now what?” John asked carefully, eyes a bit too focused on Sherlock’s burn, unbearably careful with this touch. "What's going to happen?"

“Hm?”

“Now? Now that you know?”

“Something has to happen? What has to happen?” Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Well, I…” He was in this deep, might as well keep going. “I’m not registered.”

“Mm. I presumed as much.” Sherlock leaned back. “Mycroft for one would have been the first to tell me if you had been.”

“Finished.” John said as he pulled away, watching Sherlock test the flexibility of the plaster.

“Honestly John, you must be absurd if you think I would turn you in.” He ran his eyes along John and smiled. “Brilliant.”

“What is?” John asked, exasperated.

“You. Brilliant.”

His heart did a fierce tuck and roll as he forced his eyes away, starting to clean up his med kit. Anything to keep himself occupied and not be overwhelmed by Sherlock’s intense stare. “That um. Alright.”

“You seem surprised.”

“I’m…You were hurt. I—“ John motioned. “I burned you.”

Sherlock shrugged casually. “Considering I believe you did save my life, it’s worth the wound. We got away, didn’t we?”

John nodded, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, thinking. “You aren’t losing your touch.”

“Hm?”

“I’m only half. Rare that I am able to glamour, most aren’t able to. So you know,” he shrugged. “Harder to deduce I’m sure.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” He shouted, looking ridiculously pleased. “I knew it!”

“No, you didn’t.” John said with a smile.

“Father’s side.”

“Lucky guess.”

* * *

 

“Here,” Sherlock said suddenly, the moment John entered the kitchen. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, yawning as he took the bowl and frowned at it.

“Oatmeal?" He pulled a face. "I hate oatmeal.”

“You aren’t eating it. The item in the bowl is unimportant. I want you to heat it.”

“What?”

Sherlock turned and picked up a book the thickness of a dictionary, dropping it with a heavy thud on the countertop. “I’ve been reading—“

“Oh, Christ.” John muttered as he set the bowl down next to the book.

“Researching.” Sherlock clarified, following John as he made his way to the couch. “You should be able to heat that from your hands within the glamour.”

“I’m not going to be an experiment for you to fiddle with.” He growled without hesitation.

Sherlock sighed. “How are we supposed to know what you can do if we don’t –“ He stopped, clearly searching for a word that wasn’t ‘experiment’. “Try it out?”

“I know what I’m capable.”

“Oh? So _can_ you heat it?”

John paused and Sherlock nodded knowingly, pointing to him. “See? You don’t know. I know that since your human mother raised you; you have no idea what you’re truly capable of. All the research says you should be able to with concentration. This is something that could be critical when we’re out in the field.”

“The _field_?”

“Of course. Problem?” He added with a raised eyebrow, noticing John’s incredulous look.

“Sherlock,” John started very carefully. “This… I don’t know what you think this is, but that part of my life. I don’t like to acknowledge it. That bit from before, that was instinct. To protect us. But it won’t happen again. None of that side touches the _field_.”

Sherlock looked baffled but said nothing.

“Why do you think I carry a gun? That’s what I use, that’s what I’m familiar with and what I feel safe using. I don’t trust the other side.” He stood, heading back up stairs.

“John, if we researched and tested--.”

He stopped but didn’t turn. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It isn’t safe. Can you respect that? Please?”

He didn’t wait for a reply as he started back up the stairs.  

* * *

 

“Snow globes.”

John glanced up from the body. “I’m sorry?”

Sherlock circled in a smooth movement around the corpse, deftly stepping around the stones of the waterfront.

“Just something I noticed.” He murmured, cocking his head and playing with his retractable magnifier.

“You noticed snow globes?” John asked slowly, glancing around the beach and feeling utterly lost.

“She collected snow globes. Most dragons collect items. Have troves. Trinkets. Natural hoarders. But you don’t.” Sherlock knelt and brushed back the collar of the dead man’s shirt, plucking a hair.

“At this again are we?” John asked dryly, nervously looking around. A large crowd had formed behind the tape, mobiles out and snapping pictures. Thankfully no one was within earshot, but his hackles were raised. “I’ll get an evidence bag shall I?” John asked, quickly changing the subject and motioning towards Sherlock’s hand that held the stray strand.

“Was he famous?”

“Who? Him?” John motioned toward the body, nodding. “Yeah a bit. On a reality show programme.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, looking at the crowd.

“You wouldn’t have heard of it.” John added with a half-grin as Sherlock stood, eyes fixed on the throng.

“He’s here.” Sherlock murmured, stepping over the body and heading towards the still growing mob.

“Oi, the hair!” John yelped, plucking it from Sherlock’s hand and following him.

“He’s _here_ , John.”

“The killer?” John frowned. “You think he’d be so stupid as to still stick around?”

“Oh, I believe we both know what I think of most killers John.”

“Right so…tell Lestrade?” Slowing his pace and glancing over at the detective inspector on the other side.

Sherlock shrugged. “If you must. I’ll know him when I see him.”

Christ. John glanced at Lestrade and back over to Sherlock before deciding. “I’ll tell Greg and meet you back there. Don’t do anything until I’m back with you.”

Sherlock kept walking ahead, only acknowledging with a wave of his hand.

* * *

 

For the third time in John’s life, the second in as many weeks, he reacted on instinct.

There was a shout and the crowd started hollering and both Greg and John spun. John dropped the evidence bag and sprinted. He knew that voice. Sherlock. God Damnit. Why hadn’t he _waited_?

* * *

 

He didn’t know what his expectations were, but seeing Sherlock bleeding from a gunshot wound was the last of them. The detective was crumpled in the sand. The crowd was scattering frantically, screaming. A large man stood over Sherlock, arm at the ready to fire again. Glancing down at Sherlock, John had the ridiculous question of how on earth Sherlock was going to get all that sand out of his coat.

It was his last coherent, human thought.

* * *

 

He burned.

He was a dragon. He couldn’t _burn_.

Something was around his mouth and he snapped, body thrashing. Claws raked in the soft earth.

The thing touched his muzzle again. “Stop, you’re safe. You’re safe now.”

He wasn’t. He was burning.

“He’s a—“

“Stop _gawking_ and call an ambulance!” 

“--dragon. A _bloody_ dragon.”

“ _Lestrade_!”

“Right right okay.”

“John, you’re safe.”

His tail curled and lashed out. Something in the distance crashed.

“Stop it!” The human snarled at him, gripping around his muzzle hard, lifting his head and boring into his eyes.

A crowd had formed. People, so many humans—

“Don’t focus on them. Focus on _me_.” The man commanded sharply, running a hand along the caramel-colored scales, before settling under the soft skin of his throat.

“Oi, mate! Don’t do that.” The gray haired human’s strange device was up to his ear, but he shook his head vehemently at the other touching him.

“He isn’t going to hurt me.” He snapped. “Did you call them?”

“Yes, five minutes. But they aren’t going to take a—“ He waved a hand down.

“John, you were shot. I need you to re-set the glamour.”

Shot? His wings unfolded—

“No! No. John. Stop!” The human’s voice was suddenly pitched high, anxious. He let his wings drop heavily back into the dirt.

His belly ached, itchy in the sand.

Sand. He’d been in sand before. Been shot in the sand before. Bled in the sand before. Humans were still gathering. They held strange devices. He heard clicking and murmuring.

He closed his eyes and curled his body, tucking his tail against his side, suddenly wanting himself small.

The hands on his throat were solid, stroking and comforting. The human’s words washed over him.

“John, you’re alright. You’ll be okay. You’re safe.” There was a contemplative pause. “ _I’m_ safe, John. You saved me. You always save me.”

He opened his eyes and focused in on the man.

“ **Sherlock**.”

The hands froze, and the gray haired human jerked, eyes like saucers.

“Did he just--!?”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted calmly, moving his hands to the side of his neck, careful fingers smoothing down ruffled scales. “John. I was grazed, I’m alright. But you were—Perhaps if it were anywhere other than your stomach. Scales aren’t as solid there.” Sherlock explained gently.

“Ambulance is coming through the gates. I’ll get the crowd back. Much as I can.”

“Re-set your glamour, John.”

“ **I can’t.”** He rumbled, his voice alien even to himself.

Sherlock’s eyes were thunderous, the grip around his face tightening. “This is not up for _debate_ John Watson. You will re-set, get taken care of, and we go home and we will be fine. Like we always are. Now re-set. Your. _Glamour_.”

John closed his eyes and felt himself sagging back into the sand.

* * *

 

The scent of antiseptic was like a shock to his system and he jolted, before he felt a steady hand on his arm.

“You back with me?” Came a gentle voice.

He blinked, the light blurring his vision. “Hospital?” He murmured hoarsely.

Sherlock gently released his arm. “No. Home.” Came the curt reply. “They wouldn’t...They discharged you.”

John nodded, closing his eyes. He expected as much.

“Call a vet?” He grimaced, attempting a smile but Sherlock shot him an absolutely filthy look.

“That is not funny.”

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “They treat me at least?”

“Yes.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at him.

John twisted the sheets with his fingers, testing the fabric when he abruptly stopped.

“Am I in your bed?” He blinked rapidly, trying to focus and failing miserably.

“Mm. Yes. Less stairs. It made sense.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Sherlock paced, uncharacteristically nervous.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock gaped at him. “Am I--?” He paced, John just making his silhouette through the daylight. “He shot you three times, and even as he was shooting you you still charged. You tossed him across the bay as if he were a _doll_.”

“Is he dead?” John asked calmly, closing his eyes. The light hurt his head.

“No. No, he’s not. And thanks to evidence we collected at the murder scene and then his attempted murder, he won’t be released anytime soon.”

John nodded. “Good. That’s good then. What about your graze?”

Sherlock shifted. “Fine. He wasn’t prepared to properly aim. The second attempt, the one you stopped.” He paused, looking down at his hands. “That would have ended differently, I would imagine.”

“There were people. Cameras.”

“John, you can’t think of that right now.”

“Lestrade, everyone at New Scotland Yard.”

“John, stop.” He expected Sherlock to shout at him, but the man was gentle. “Please don’t distress yourself. I’ll figure it out. But for now, I need you to rest and heal.” Sherlock reached toward his face and John flinched but allowed the touch. “You have a fever. Does your head hurt?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, squinting. “A bit. And I don’t get fevers, I’m a natural furnace, remember?”

“You can get a fever from infection.” Sherlock snatched a bottle off the end table, glaring at it. “Human antibiotics. I don’t know how effective they’ll be. It was all they would give you.”

“Mm. Well, the pain killers are working fine. I heal quicker than most.” He murmured, his eyes slipping shut again. “Just need some sleep.” He slurred.

Cool fingers smoothed over his hair and temple but Sherlock was silent.

* * *

 

Everything was a hazy nightmare.

He was iced over, sweat freezing on his body and then he was burning, that sensation more than anything frightening him beyond belief.

The human was there. Sherlock, his Sherlock. Wiping his brow with terrycloth and soothing him, murmuring. Safe. He's safe. He clutched at him tightly.

“I need—I need.” He mumbled, tossing his head. His gut throbbed.

Sherlock hovered over him, eyes wide. “What? What John, what do you need? What can help?”

“I don’t. I don’t know.” He cried. He didn’t like being hot, overheating. Burning. Why was he burning?

 _Infection_ _you idiot_ , his human counterpart reminded him but he twisted, even as Sherlock tried to keep his shoulders to the bed.

“Please, stay down.” The man begged, sounding so unlike himself John realized Sherlock must be really out of his depth. “You’ll tear your stitches. Please.”

“I need it. Please. Sherlock.”

“ _What_ , John? _Tell me_.” Sherlock jerked away sharply, as if struck, eyes wide with realization. “I _know_.” He breathed. “I—“ He stopped and turned, bolting out the door.

John shuddered, the heat scalding his back and across his belly. He dug a claw into the bedding, almost shredding. He blearily realized his glamour was bending, close to shattering.

 _Stay human. Stay human for Sherlock._ He commanded to himself.

“Here. John, _here_.” Something was placed in his hand, several somethings, blissfully cool and soothing.

Oh God.

“Yesss,” he writhed, sweat beading down his temples. His fingers and half claws clutched at the items Sherlock shoved into his palms.

“There you go,” Sherlock ran a hand down his neck, slicking off the sweat, finger on his pulse. “There you go.” He moved his hands over John’s, clasping them tightly. “Just hold onto them. Keep holding, just like that.”

It was ecstasy. Calming like a balm on his soul. He stilled, breath evening out, just feeling the cool objects in his hands and Sherlock’s hand stroking his shoulder.

After a few minutes, he settled more comfortably, blinking at Sherlock. He looked at his hands, opening them. “What—“

“Mrs. Hudson’s.” Sherlock motioned, clearly pleased. “Necklace. A bracelet. Two rings.”

“ _Gold_?” John breathed, incredulous, sitting up slightly.

Sherlock nodded, pulling his hand away and motioning. “Gold and gems. Necklace is gold plated but the diamond pendant in the middle would suffice. White gold rings, 18 carat. The bracelet, silver, obviously, but the gem is emerald. Now lie back down.”

John clutched them to his chest and he gently flopped back, staring up at the ceiling. “Bloody hell.”

“Helps to do research, John.” Sherlock quirked a smile. “Feel better?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Bit stiff, but. That makes no sense, how these can break a fever. I’m a doctor and I … It makes no sense.”

Sherlock shrugged. “And I’m a scientific mind that long ago stopped questioning how dragons can glamour into human skins. I think this is just another thing that will remain a mystery.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Of course it does!” Sherlock laughed. John relaxed, loving the sound. “I am so very rarely perplexed by things John. I find it all fascinating. I find you fascinating.”

“I um. Thanks.” He ducked his head, fiddling with the jewelry.

“I think another day, and you’ll be healed up.” Sherlock nodded to his front. “Fever broke, and like you said you heal quicker than most. I can take the stitches out tomorrow night.”

“Alright.” John nodded. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Of course.” Sherlock stood from the bed, looking at the door to John, on the precipice of staying or going.

“I’m fine, Sherlock. I’ll let you know if I need anything, alright?”

Sherlock nodded, still clearly anxious as he shifted where he stood.

John worried his bottom lip. “You were wrong, you know.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

“You said I didn’t collect anything.”

“You don’t.” Sherlock stated quickly. “Have you seen your bedroom?”

John smiled, shaking his head. “Doesn’t always mean objects like that.” He paused. “You. I collected you. A long time ago.”

Sherlock blinked. “A collection implies more than one, John. I believe that’s the definition.”

“I collected all of your kind. ‘Consulting detective’. Hardly my fault you’re such a rare species.” He smiled. “You’re mine. My human.”

The man swallowed hard and nodded. “And you’re my dragon.”

John nodded.

Brilliant.


	2. Chapter 2

 

The fallout was inevitable but it didn’t make Sherlock rage any less.

He placed the tip of the cigarette in his mouth as he pocketed his mobile and swept a drag of smoke into his lungs, savoring briefly before exhaling hard into the crisp air. He paced, oscillating on the sidewalk outside the dull, gray building, waiting. Waiting.

He _despised_ waiting.

This is why he didn’t get involved with people. Hypocritical, insipid, _stupid_ people.

He pulled another drag right as his target bolted out the main door, eyes fixed on his mobile as he struggled with his trouser pockets, fishing out keys.

Sherlock spat out the cigarette and made his move, striding out along the walkway and catching up with the man, roughly grabbing his left arm.

Lestrade spun, startled, and dropped his keys, eyes widening in alarm before blinking rapidly up at Sherlock.

“Sher-“

“It was Wednesday yesterday.” Sherlock released and pulled back, watching closely as the Inspector bent low and swept his keys off the pavement.

“I erh,” The man waffled, uncomfortable and confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Did he have to spell everything out? “Wednesday is when you go to the pub across from Tally’s Way. Your shift ends early, paperwork day I suspect. You text John to accompany you.” He made a deliberate pause, soaking in the guilty way Lestrade’s eyes darted briefly away from his face. “Yesterday was Wednesday and you didn’t.”

“Listen, Sherlock.” The man took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck and squinting randomly into the distance. Sherlock suspected he would look anywhere than at Sherlock at that moment.

“It’s--listen in my position it’s complicated. What with John…” He wavered, clearly trying to gauge Sherlock’s reaction but the detective was deliberately and carefully blank in expression. “I can’t just—“ Again with the waffling. Sherlock waited. _Waited_. Before Lestrade gave a pathetic shrug and fixated down at his keys, turning them over in his hands. “It’s just not something I’m able to do at the moment.”

Sherlock felt a violent urge to strike the man. To berate him for how John glanced at his phone every hour, how he paced and clearly worried, wondered if he’d lost someone who he considered a friend and ally. He wanted Lestrade to know what he now knew. That John had relied on Wednesdays, for pub nights, to feel social, to feel normal, to feel hum-

He couldn’t even complete the thought.

Sherlock silently turned heel and walked away.

He pulled out another cigarette.

* * *

 

In the past several weeks Sherlock had gotten very good at the shopping.

He actually found it simple. Once the basic inventory of their supplies were taken, lists made up on specific items and quantities and the layout of Tesco’s aisles drawn up, he found he could be in and out in less than twelve minutes. Ten if he went to check stand 3 while a woman named Alice cashiered it.

He spread out the three bags on the counter tops and glared at them. Shopping he could do now, but the act of putting items away still greatly displeased him.

He stepped briefly into the living room, eyes sweeping over the area before doing the same to the kitchen and he sighed to himself. John still hadn’t been down from his room. Nothing in the kitchen area had been touched.

Sherlock pulled off his gloves and shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the rack as he made his way upstairs.

He rapped twice on John’s door with one knuckle. “I’ve done the shopping.” He declared.

There was a few moments before, “Alright.”

“It’s on the counter.” He paused. “For you to put away.” He clarified.

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock.” Came the aggravated voice beyond the door. “Fine then.”

Irritation. Better than the silent apathy he’d been dealing with lately.

Sherlock waited twenty seconds, before, “I believe some of it is perishable if not put in the fridge straight aw—“

“ _Christ_.” Came the grimace in the room, as he heard the creak of John’s bed as he stepped off and came to the door, swinging it open swiftly. “ _Okay_ , I get it. I’m coming. I’m going down now.”

“Ah good. I was afraid I was being too subtle. I have something to discuss with you.” Sherlock turned, missing the roll of John’s eyes.

Spreading the bounty on the table, John opened the fridge and began rearranging to make room. “Go on then.”

Sherlock hesitated, but hid it by shuffling the papers in his hands, feigning indifference. How to broach this? Best to start somewhere…

“I went to the post today.” He began, stacking the pages neatly as John tossed butter into the fridge, giving him a glance. “Your papers came.” He said evenly.

 _Papers_. Like John were some type of pedigree dog, needing proof of its lineage, vaccinations and licensing.

John stared into the fridge, unmoving, before snatching an amber bottle of beer and kneeing the door shut. He turned and with a surprisingly dexterous movement slammed the head of the bottle down against the edge of the table, the cap popping off with a neat ‘click’ and clattering like a knocked top. The move was so practiced Sherlock blinked rapidly, slightly impressed before it quickly melded into worry, watching as John took a long swallow.

“Have you had a proper meal today?” Sherlock found himself asking, his brain crisscrossing the data between the alcohol content of the beer, John’s own capacity and the food required to prevent any sickness.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shrugging. “I’m fine.” He said in a clipped tone.

“We’ve already determined you need seven thousand calories a day and we hadn’t—“

There was a slam, and Sherlock jerked at the noise. John had brought down the bottle hard enough on the wood to force a rush of liquid out the neck, droplets running down the glass.

“ _YOU_ determined, Sherlock. You. Not ‘we’. You’ve been telling me what and how much I needed to eat, how much to sleep, and what documents I needed to fill out and—and now _this_.” He motioned to the papers in Sherlock’s hand. “That’s it then, yeah? Christ.” He lifted the bottle and took another long drag, eyes locked to the ceiling.

“You’re registered, yes.” Sherlock started carefully, John’s recent moods making him tread on ice. It was awful not having a read on his flatmate’s emotions, John not nearly as open to him as of late.

“To you.” John spat, chucking the empty bottle to the bin. It bounced off the side and rolled in a neat semi-circle on the rug. John gave a rueful chuckle and shook his head.

Where was this all coming from? They’d spoken about it at length. Several times. The only part of the process that had taken coaxing on Sherlock’s part was convincing John to see a medical specialist and receive proper care for his alternate form. Sherlock had greatly disliked how thin John had looked on the beach, despite the healthy condition of his glamour.

“I suppose you always did want a pet,” John said it with such a tone of distain; Sherlock launched himself and caught him by his collar.

“You have no idea how utterly insulting you’re being,” he snarled, swift anger pumping through his heart. John had startled up at him and froze, pinned between Sherlock and the sink. “This is how things are, John.” He continued, softening his tone but not relinquishing his grip. “We talked about this. We agreed. Don’t you dare hold any of this against me.”

“I’m. I’m not.”

“Then what is it?” Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath.

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” John scrubbed a hand over his face, before resting his palm against his neck, his arm hand bracing the elbow. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Something happened today, did it not?” Sherlock carefully watched a tic near John’s mouth twitch, a small tell that he had hit something significant. “You hadn’t been down all day. You were in your room on your laptop.”

“Someone.” John stopped himself, shaking his head. “Some twat embedded the video into the comments on the blog. I hadn’t— I mean I managed to delete it but I—I hadn’t seen it before.”

The Video. They both knew of its existence, the infamous beach video a bystander had taken of the two of them just before the shooting. John’s shattered glamour, his attack on the suspect and his conversation with Sherlock. The first dragon caught speaking in a human tongue. Neither had viewed it, despite the rounds it had made on YouTube and social media platforms and the many calls for interviews. The fact John was an unregistered half-breed had sent many into a panic, and led the to their current state of affairs.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked toward the clenching of John’s left hand, another useful tell for the detective to gauge how well John’s hold on his glamour was. At the moment, it was bending.

“Alright,” he nodded, taking a step away, noting how John relaxed a touch. There was another stitch of guilt in his gut. The knowledge of what he should say versus the aversion to such conversation. _What did you see? How does that make you feel? Do you want to talk about it?_ That’s what a friend should say, he would imagine. And yet, they were not the types of conversations with John he had ever found to be useful, as it led down a shielded, angry path that made the air awkward and led to days of silence.

“I’m sorry,” John said suddenly with a tone of sincerity, which was slightly shocking but Sherlock kept a neutral face. “I’m just tired, I think. I know you’re trying to help. I appreciate it. It’s just… a lot to take in. That it’s all done and it’s just…” He gave a vague shrug. Sherlock merely nodded and waited.

“I’m going to uhm.” John made his way to the hallway, snatching the bottle off the ground and gently placing it in the bin. “I’m going to have a rest I think. Dinner later?”

It was nearing evening, so Sherlock nodded. “I’ll order in.”

* * *

 

They had eaten dinner in a somewhat comfortable atmosphere in the living room. Sherlock was mindful to stay away from such topics as Lestrade, or the recent news events of half-breed crackdowns. John nodded and seemed genuinely engaged with his tale of a cold case he had been tasked with.

There was a sliver of moon outside the window as Sherlock bid John good night, but given their earlier argument, Sherlock climbed into bed atop the covers, and waited with the lights on.

At first, Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint the rhyme or reason to John’s sudden visits that first appeared randomly within days of John having been shot on his behalf.

He had attempted to calculate the days and weeks, but it never stayed within a pattern of time. Slowly, over the course of several more visits, Sherlock came to a conclusion.

In his intensive research, he had found multiple studies regarding dragons and their hoard. What they deemed their trove and treasure, along with their compulsion to protect and monitor such possessions. And somehow, over the course of the years the two had lived together, John had brought Sherlock into that fold of definition and now the impulse was there, having been awoken by their discussion of it and Sherlock’s acceptance.

He waited patiently. As the minutes dripped by he began to think perhaps he were wrong, and there would be no visit tonight, before there was shuffling above him. John climbing out of bed and making his way downstairs.

He sat up, back against the headboard as his door swung open, and John entered.

“Come here,” Sherlock said lightly. John shut and locked his door, testing the handle twice, before he walked over, flicking off the light as he approached. He was clad only in blue pajama bottoms, barefoot and bare-chested. He climbed halfway on the bed, body tense. His gaze was severe, focused and alert but a flicker of fear lurked.

“I’m here.” Sherlock said, tone careful as John touched his arm, as he always did, trailing it up to his shoulder, as he always did. There was always a tentativeness to it, like John half expected his hand to pass through him. “It’s all right.”

John nodded, a bit hazily, pulling his hand away.

“Lie down with me.” Sherlock suggested, and John obeyed, climbing up fully on Sherlock’s bed, cupping a hand around the man’s hip and pulling Sherlock roughly to his bare chest, curling them together on the duvet.

Sherlock knew better than to struggle at the sudden movement, even as he felt the brief sharpness of a claw brush his shoulder. He forced calm, knowing realistically John would never, ever hurt him, but his traitorous lizard brain still keeping him on edge.

John never fully slipped the glamour away, and thank God for that, as Sherlock knew his bed couldn’t stand the weight. However, there were brief snippets; a bit of gold scale along the shoulder, a swipe of tail against the hardwood and as of right now, a claw that pressed to his side, the scales along his body as smooth as polished marble.

Just another thing they didn’t talk about. Ever. Stemmed from John’s own panic of Sherlock either being taken away, or leaving. Arguments seemed to trigger the impulse. Injuries as well, no matter how minor, also lead to such nightly stays. Come morning, this would be ignored, never spoken. The first few times Sherlock had tried John had flat out denied it, face beat red and all his human tells firing, leaving Sherlock utterly baffled.

He remembered images when he was a child. Posters and propaganda against dragons, all roars and fire, clutching gold and gems between blood-caked claws. Watercoloured children’s books always displayed dragons as greedy. Single-mindedly focused on collecting for their trove, gathering items in cave and sleeping on top, always guarding.

John’s treasure wasn’t gold, jewelry, coins or even snow globes. It was _him_ , and a well of satisfaction and a pulse of affection settled inside his chest at such a thought. Of being selected and prized and needed. Such an alien concept now realized.

“ ** _I’m sorry_** ,” the voice was very, very soft, but deep and strangely layered. John’s voice as it were during his transformation on the beach.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“ ** _I can’t… I can’t help it.”_** The tone rang a bit higher with stress.

Sherlock reached and stroked a hand down John’s back, a scattering of scales peppering down his spine. “I know. I need you to be calm. We’re all right.”

John’s body was blazing, but he didn’t drip sweat, even as Sherlock felt beads beginning to form on his own temple. “Calm, John. We’re fine. We’re all fine.” He continued, fingers lazily stroking John’s scales.

John shifted Sherlock’s body gently, pressing his face into the man’s T-shirt. He nodded.

“Get some rest.” Sherlock murmured, watching as John’s eyes slid shut. “I’ve got you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Madnina](http://www.madnina.tumblr.com) for the wonderful art gif!
> 
> \----
> 
> You can follow me on the thing if you like! :3
> 
> [Belladonnaq.tumblr.com](http://www.belladonnaq.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock winced at the soft squeak of the hinge, holding his breath and listening for any sounds of movement in the kitchen. Finding none, he exhaled as quietly as he could. He closed the door with an utterly silently _snick_.

“Sherlock.”

He spun and brought his arm up to his face, startled and half-blinded by the lights that buzzed to life.

Mycroft stood at the entryway to the kitchen, wearing a pair of straight cut slacks and a university embroidered white polo. He held a determined and distinctly pleased look on his face. Sherlock clenched his teeth.

Bringing his arm down, Sherlock schooled his expression and lifted his chin. “Mycroft.” He said as casually as he could manage.

“And where were you at this hour?” His brother asked, crossing his arms and waiting.

Sherlock motioned. “Outside. Obviously.”

“At nearing mid-night?” Mycroft’s eyes sudden widened and Sherlock braced himself. “Good heavens! Your shoes!” He proclaimed, and Sherlock shot his brother an angry glare, even as he felt his knees bend awkwardly and his feet go pigeon-toed in insecurity.  As if somehow such a move could hide the mess from the observant eyes of his brother. Sherlock felt his face flame up at such an impulsive childish attempt. He was nearly twelve, he was hardly a _child_.

“You’ve mud and ash everywhere!” He reached and gripped the younger Holmes’ lapel of his mist-drenched coat and bore down to him. “ _Where were you_?”

“Outside.” Sherlock stated again, defiant. But his gut clenched as Mycroft’s eyes grew more severe.

“Your coat is _singed_!” Mycroft opened the flap of his thick jacket, tugging at the scorched wool.

“Indirectly.” Sherlock worded carefully. “It’s from a burning tree that fell—“

“From a burning _WHAT_?” Mycroft looked properly horror-struck now. Sherlock looked down at his mud and ash-caked school shoes. Something tightened in his throat, like a broken bit of bone he couldn’t quite swallow down.

“Have you a death wish?” Sherlock kept his gaze downward. “Sherlock, look at me.”

The younger boy wrenched free from Mycroft’s hold. “No.”

“You had promised Mummy you’d stay out of the woods. Stay away from those _things_ —”

“I did!” Sherlock shouted, watching with a bit of pleasure as his brother flinched. “I stayed back. I was. I was only _observing_!”

“Sherlock keep your voice down!” Mycroft hissed.

Sherlock made a quick move to stalk around his brother, but Mycroft reached and touched his shoulder. He swatted it away with an angry bat and he felt his brother recoil. “You can’t do this! You can’t leave for school then come home and tell me what to do! If you’re going to leave then just—just stay _GONE_!” He shouted and felt himself shake with the spark of adrenaline.

“Sherlock…“ Mycroft looked stricken.

Sherlock swallowed hard, attempting valiantly to quell his anger and blossoming guilt at his brother’s expression. He’d never seen Mycroft so speechless.

He turned and bolted into the main hall and up the stairs to his room.

* * *

When he awoke, John was gone, but the heat of his body still lingered throughout the bed.

His phone stated it was 06:23, and he had two missed calls from Lestrade along with a voicemail. He frowned at the screen, flicking the settings from silent to vibrate. The notifications indicated Lestrade had called, left a voicemail, and attempted to call him again. Definitely a case then. And definitely above a seven.

He showered and dressed quickly, and headed into the hallway while he listened to the voicemail.

_“Sherlock, it’s Lestrade. Listen ah, got something I think you’d be interested in. Fairly violent. Not a murder, sorry. Sorry? Uh well, you know wha’a’mean. It's tied to murders but this particular one isn't a murder.. Oh sod it. Come by the office when you can today. And uh. Bring John. I mean if he wants. I mean if he would like to. Uh. Right then, bye.”_

Arriving into the living room, John stood over the coffee table, teacup in one hand with the registration papers in the other. He lifted his head and Sherlock stopped, eyes flicking from John, to the papers, to John once more, suddenly extremely alert.

“Just thought I should ehm.” John shrugged. “Read the fine print.”

“I’ve read through them quite thoroughly.” Sherlock stated, pocketing his mobile and heading into the kitchen. He lifted the kettle and poured himself a mug.

“Yeah. No, I’m sure just. Never mind.” John placed them back down to the table. “So, where you off to then?”

Sherlock spooned sugar into his mug. “Sorry?”

John quirked a smile at him. “You’re off somewhere. You’ve got the look.”

“I haven’t got _a look_.” Sherlock stated, and then narrowed his eyes in confusion at John’s raised eyebrow. “ _What_?” He asked, exasperated.

“So you aren’t going somewhere?” John held a teasing tone to the question that Sherlock had found himself missing as of late.

“Well,” Sherlock took a drink of his tea, deciding immediately to play the game. “There might be a case...” He gave another slow, deliberate sip.

“Might be?” John hedged.

“It’s not a murder. Not exactly anyhow."

“Well, that’s good then isn’t it?”

Sherlock shrugged dismissively, eyes focused on the counter. “Still might be dangerous.”

John was silent for a beat. “What makes you say that?”

“Lestrade used the word ‘violent’ in his message.”

“But not a murder? An assault? What did he say?”

“Just that I would find it ‘interesting’.” He paused. “And that you should come along.”

“Greg said that?” John said after a moment, and Sherlock hated the small, surprised way John asked.

He brushed the feeling aside. “Yes, he did. So, get your coat.”

“Oh I, um.” John took a step back and glanced toward the window, arms crossing his chest.

“John, it’s been weeks.” Sherlock placed the cup on the counter and walked toward the door, grabbing his coat and scarf. “You’ve got to come out of your cave at some point.”

“Is that a bloody _pun_?”

“Oh for!—“ Sherlock snatched John’s jacket off the hook and tossed it into the other’s chest. “Come along now.” He all but commanded as he took off for the stairs. Thankfully, he heard John right behind him.

* * *

John wasn’t sure how exactly his legs physically managed to get himself out of the cab in front of Scotland Yard as his whole body felt locked in anxiety. Their trip was short, as it was not even seven in the morning and traffic was surprisingly light John drummed his fingers against his leg as they entered, keeping his face carefully neutral. He was fine. Perfectly, completely fine.

If there were eyes on him as they made their way to Lestrade’s office, John hadn’t felt them. He kept his focus on Sherlock’s back and straight ahead, resolutely ignoring his peripheral vision. He was fine, he was fine. He was fine.

* * *

“Kali Keyton, just moved here and registered in London a few weeks ago. She was attacked on Wednesday night, during that gale of a rainstorm.” Lestrade began, lifting a thin file from his desk. Sherlock snatched it and began reading.

“She’s a dragon.” Sherlock lifted his head, and John leaned over to glance at the file in his hand.

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, common factor in all cases. Only factor, actually. Male, female, young, old, chromatic, metallic, gem… doesn’t matter. The only common factor is that they’re a variation of dragon and they’re all,” he shot John a glance. “They’re all dead.”

“All but for her.” Sherlock noted, lifting the file pointedly.

“Right. Only survivor. Attacks all are the same. The bodies are found at various parks and woods, stretched out...”

“Lured then.” Sherlock nodded, and he looked to John whose expression was blank. “Lured out and killed. But lured out how?"

“Not just killed,” Lestrade said with a grimace. “Tortured.”

John felt his jaw tense as Sherlock reopened the file and leafed through, coming upon the graphic photos.

“They’ve been pieced apart.” Sherlock said slowly. Greg nodded grimly. “What of Ms. Keyton?”

“Just released from the specialty clinic last night. Report says she was mutilated. Horns, dew-claws—”

“Right then.” Sherlock stood quickly, closing and handing the file to John. “Let’s get to it then. Go on.”

“I’m uh, sorry?” Lestrade asked, but refused to cow to Sherlock’s furious stare.

“Go on then. ‘ _Oh bring along John if you want to, Sherlock’_. Hardly a friendly suggestion now is it. So go on then, tell us why we’re, or rather, why John is here.” He snapped.

John took a deep breath, but stayed silent, risking glances from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again. He felt a deep satisfaction tweak in his chest at Sherlock’s dominate posturing and Lestrade’s sudden caginess.

“She won’t talk to us,” Greg said after a beat, ignoring the irritated scoff from Sherlock. “I just thought—“ He trailed and glanced at John.

John balked, “What, me? You want me to speak to the victim?”

“I’d thought—I mean, what with you being all—“ Lestrade stopped, before throwing a glance to Sherlock.

“Being all _what_ , exactly?” Sherlock’s tone was as dangerous as John had ever heard it. “Do please, continue that thought.”

“Jesus Sherlock, I’m not trying to have a row, alright? I’m being as PC as I possibly can. It’s just, I’m out of ideas. And time. This is escalating. We don’t have anyone in the department that’s… I mean we can send in a request to another agency, there’s one that employs wyvrens in their I.T. Department, but they’re certainly not proper investigators. You and John are what I have, and in this instance, okay yeah.”

Lestrade took a breath, then leveled John with a long, serious look. “I would like you to speak with the victim, she’s the only survivor from all these attacks. She won’t speak to …us, and I just would…I’m sorry, alright? For everything. And I would like to get the bastards who are doing this.”

“Isn’t this whole crime outside of your division?” Sherlock asked, drawing Greg’s wary attention.

“Took it upon myself, actually. Did as much as I could and now I’m at a standstill. I’m… I’m just trying to do the right thing, Sherlock.” Lestrade suddenly sounded exhausted, bringing a hand to rub at his temples.

John took a breath, nodding once. “Right. Fine then.”

“John?” Sherlock looked a bit surprised, and John nodded once more, with finality.

“I’m good. This is fine. I’m fine. Just let us know where to go to find her.”

* * *

She was surprisingly very small, John noted, at least on the outside. Some cautious, instinctual part of his mind alerted to him that she wasn’t as small as she may have seemed, her glamour masking something larger and much older and imposing underneath. Even as she eyed him from the small crack in the door he could see she was thin, with fine, shoulder length blonde hair that framed her angular face. John attempted a smile but she snarled at him and began to slam the door in his face.

“No, wait! I’m sorry.” He said quickly, bringing a hand to the door and winced as it banged off of it. “Wait, Ms. Keyton, just listen please.”

“Can’t have it. Not yours!” She hissed through the crack, and there was a shimmer of sapphire and ruby that shone just beyond the door before fleeting out of sight.

“ _Tell her you don’t want it_.” Sherlock whispered behind him. “ _Tell her you don’t want her treasure._ ”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want your... treasure.” John parroted, face feeling hot with embarrassment from the awkward wording. He tossed a confused glance at Sherlock, who merely stared. “We came to help. Honest.” He continued to the door.

“Help for why?” She growled, and John felt the wooden door begin to heat and smoke quickly by his arm. Oh, great.

“I uh, my name is John Watson. And this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“No more police! No more _humans_.”

“No, we’re not police. And I’m not… Listen, we’re wanting to help. Sherlock is my,” John faltered. _Oh God. Oh please don’t make him say it out loud._ “He’s mine. I mean he’s with me.” _Christ._ “Honest, Kali, we’re here to help you.”

There was a pause, and the door began to suddenly cool. “He’s yours? This is mine?”

“Uhh…” John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded pointedly. “Yeah, sure. Yeah.” John said, keeping his voice even. “Yes, exactly. I don’t want what’s yours. I’ve got mine.”

* * *

That flat was terribly small, the size of which wasn’t aided by the hundreds of ticking, whirring clocks and various timepieces that littered each room. The ticking was borderline maddening and John cleared his throat as they were led into the main sitting area.

“You like?” She motioned at the room, and John’s eyes swept the area, noticing each small, antique clock and intricate timepiece strewn about frilled doilies, bookcases and mantels.

He nodded slowly. “Yes. They’re very lovely, Kali.” He agreed, and she preened a bit, skirting her fingertips along the tops of several clocks, clearly pleased with his praise.

“Yours?” She lifted her chin up to Sherlock in a jerky motion. “Lovely too.” She said politely.

Something fiercely possessive seized him, surging up inside his chest and he fought a vicious impulse to clutch at Sherlock and shield him. The desire was so swift it left him lightheaded and he gripped the side of his pantleg to ground himself. Oh Christ, what was that? Some weird, dragon social tic? Polite flattery of their, what? Treasures? _Jesus_.

He swallowed down whatever pull he felt, casting a glance at Sherlock who seemed oblivious, enamored in her collection. Sherlock carefully looked at several pieces, but kept a surprisingly respectful distance to avoid touching any of them.

“Right.” John swallowed again, suddenly finding it difficult to speak, heart hammering hard in his chest. “We’re here to help, like we said, and find out who hurt you on Wednesday night.”

Kali seated herself slowly on a pink, floral print loveseat, wincing in pain as she did so. On the outside, she looked unmarred, beautiful if a bit pale. John wondered what her alternate form would bare.

“Very rainy night.” She started, pulling a clock from the table beside her to her chest. “Heard someone in trouble. Female. ‘Help’ and ‘help please’ behind trees. Went to look. Then,” she slammed her palm into the small clock with a jerk, so quickly John felt himself jump. “Bam! Hooks and ropes.” She fell silent, biting her bottom lip hard.

John approached slowly, “I know this is difficult. Can you tell me what happened?”

“They took,” she touched the top of her head. Her eyes were suddenly shiny and wet. “Horns. Took.” She touched her hand and fell silent once more.

“Took her most valuable parts.” Sherlock said suddenly behind him and John turned to glare.

“Sherlock, shut it.” He ground out lowly.

“Like the pelt of a lion or the ivory of an elephant—“

“Not made of ivory, stupid.” She hissed fiercely, and John watched as Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut, lips a thin line, clearly chastened. “Not ivory. Can’t have it, they took it. They just take it. No. No…” She stood quickly, making her way to a mantel against the wall. She plucked a delicately small Swiss clock from the mantel and began winding it quickly. The gears whirred in a tight sound as she placed it back down, fingers trailing over the smooth, silvered back of it in an almost ceremonial gesture.

“Kali,” John started gently. “We’d like to help. We’d like to catch the bad people that did this, yeah?” She eyed him thoughtfully, reaching for another small clock to wind, but she was listening. That was good. “My uh,” John motioned to Sherlock, hesitating. “My … human… here he’s a detective, see. And I help him. And we catch bad men.”

“Bad humans.” She nodded in understanding, neck jerking at Sherlock, shooting him an odd glance, before focusing on winding another clock.

“Right. Yes. Can you tell me what the bad humans looked like? Anything you remember? Anything would be helpful.”

Kali hissed a distressed noise, gripping the clock in her small hands. “Didn’t much see. Was down. Couldn’t move.” She glanced at Sherlock. “Clan. Two male humans. Old. Young. One female human. Young. And egg.”

“I’m sorry?” John asked, frowning.

Kali patted her stomach twice. “ _Egg_.”

“I’m … I’m not following—“

“She was pregnant.” Sherlock, who had been still and silent behind him, spoke up quietly. Kali’s eyes flicked to him and squinted. “The female human, was pregnant, yes?” Sherlock asked.

Kali nodded slowly. “Egg. Yes. Yes.”

“That’s uh,” John glanced at Sherlock but the detective’s face was neutral. “That’s very helpful, Kali. Anything else?”

“Hooked me down. Quick. Very quick. Everything wet.” She waved her hand in front of her eyes. “Blocked.”

“Blocked your vision.” John nodded, swallowing as he noticed the crushing hold Kali now held on the piece of her trove.

“ _Time to leave_.” Sherlock murmured to him, and John nodded, understanding the tells of a shattering glamour.

“Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Keyton.” John felt Sherlock turn and make his way out the door behind him. “It’s been very helpful.”

She nodded, her grip relaxing a small fraction. “Good. Good.” She said quietly, turning back to her mantle, clutching her piece to her chest.

* * *

“So, was it actually helpful?” John asked as they made their way across the street.

Sherlock looked down at his hands, tugging his gloves off and plucking his phone from his coat pocket. “Supremely.”

“Really?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed.”

“What… What _happened_ in there?”

Sherlock glanced up briefly from his mobile. “Be more specific.”

“How did you know all that? All that….” he shrugged awkwardly, at a loss.

“Customs, John. And I’ve told you. I’ve done research.”

“Those bits aren’t in books, Sherlock. All I've been doing last few weeks is reading and _that_ ," he pointed across the street to Kali's door. "Was not in there.”

Sherlock shrugged, jaw tensing. “Forums online. The like. You know.”

“She spoke to you,” John said, crossing his arms, sensing evasion. “I thought Lestrade said she wasn’t speaking to people. You know, humans.”

Sherlock flicked through his phone, keeping his eyes focused on the screen. “She didn’t view me as a human, John. After your declaration, I was hardly more than a piece from your cache. Just a clock, so to speak.”

“My ‘ _declaration’_?”

“So. We’re looking for two men and a pregnant woman.” Sherlock considered. "The 'egg' term itself is especially telling."

“Changing the subject, then. Just like that? What aren’t you telling me?”

Sherlock began to walk down the street, pocketing his mobile. “We’re looking for a family, specifically. Father, brother and sister.”

“Are we now?” John asked, keeping up and sighing, dropping the matter for now.

“Kali used the term ‘clan’ meaning she sensed they were related. Two males, one young and one old. Father and son. Young woman would be a sister.”

“You’re guessing.”

“Reasonably certain.” Sherlock sniffed and John shook his head, exhaling hard. “Alright?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“Yeah, sure.” John waved his hand in the air dismissively. “So, what are you thinking?”

“A number of things. Why did Kali survive when all the others were outright killed? She didn't mention escape now did she?"

John shook his head.

"Next, we’re looking for a family. They’re efficient and practiced. Hooked her. Went right to work and left. They were after a specific kind of damage. Not just a random attack. They took the horns and claws… but they aren’t keeping them. They’re selling.”

“Right then. Who?”

Sherlock sighed. “Any number of people, John. Most likely overseas. I wasn’t being flippant about the elephant comment. Ivory is imported all over the world. Even the horns of rhinoceroses sold to countries that use them as ‘medicine’ or superstitious nonsense. It's happening to the point of extinction. For what purpose? Who knows, there might be those out there who simply want them on a plaque.”

“Jesus. So Greg was wrong. These aren’t just assaults, it’s… poaching.”

“I’m afraid so.” Sherlock tightened his scarf and gave a cursory glance at the sky. “Let’s go home.”

“What? Now? You don’t want to go back to the Yard? Tell Greg what we’ve learned?”

“I can phone Lestrade later, after I’ve done some research on this. Besides, I’ll feel much better when you’re inside,” he glanced to the clouds once more and John followed his gaze. “It looks like rain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow me on the thing if you like! :3
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	4. Chapter 4

They made it with just minutes to spare before a deluge of rain pelted down from the sky, rapping against the windows in thick streaks. John went to the window to peak out the curtain, shucking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously on the coffee table in the process. Sherlock watched John’s back, uncertain, before scrubbing a hand through his hair. He exhaled sharply, heading into the kitchen.

“Tea?” He asked. Despite the pretense of a question, he pulled two mugs from the cabinet. “John?”

“Hm? Oh.” John turned, dropping the curtain and made his way to his chair. “Yes. Thank you.” He paused before, “Might I make a fire?”

Sherlock glanced at the dry, blackened hearth. He shrugged, “Of course, if you like. Might do a bit of good.”

John gave a curt nod as he chucked a log of dried wood and some kindling into the fireplace, while Sherlock opened the fridge and stared at the milk, along with the groceries he had purchased the day before.

Nothing had been touched, and he gave a nervous rap of gloved fingertips against the door, shivering slightly against the soft chill of the fridge that brushed his face. Had John eaten? No, he hadn’t, Sherlock had been with him all day. He was on a case and he neglected himself in his own diet and John had suffered as well. He needed to be better at this. Damnit.

“Damnit!”

Sherlock jerked, slamming the fridge and making his way to John quickly, alarmed and on edge. “What? What is it?”

“Bloody fire won’t start. Here.” He chucked a box of matches to Sherlock, who barely managed to catch it against his elbow.

Oh. Sherlock swallowed, feeling his pulse pound hard against his throat.

“What’s the matter with you?” John asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m… nothing.” He plucked a match and settled his posture, clearing his throat. “You can’t start the fire?” At John’s mock-murderous glare, Sherlock smirked. “Oh…Irony abounds.”

“Shut it.” But John’s mouth quirked in a way that told he found it a bit amusing.  

Sherlock grabbed an old, nearly yellowing newspaper and twisted it, tucking it neatly around the wood before he struck a match. Cupping it gently, he dragged it against the twisted newsprint.

The kettle clicked off and John looked up from Sherlock. “I’ve got it.”

John prepared their tea before heading into the sitting room once more and settling in his chair. Sherlock downed the hot mug in one long swallow, feeling the heat of it coarse through his throat and warm the inside of his chest.

“Take off your coat for God’s sake.” John mumbled, toeing off his shoes and settling closer to the fire. “Let me hear your thoughts on this case so far.”

“You ought to eat something.” Sherlock said quietly as he placed the cup on the countertop.

John snorted. “In a bit, maybe.” Placing his own mug down, he leveled Sherlock with a long, hard stare. “You’re not staying, are you.” It was hardly a question.

“Have I got ‘a look’?”

“That isn’t funny.”

“No, I’m not staying. I need to speak to Lestrade.”

“You said you’d phone him.” John could hear his volume rise with each word.

“No, it needs to be in person.”

“Oh _Jesus_ Sherlock, I said before we even left—“

“I know what you said!” Sherlock barked and John balked, surprised. “But I need you here, do you understand?”

“Oh bullshit!” John stood and Sherlock took a step back, lifting his chin, jaw clenched. “What the _hell_ is going on, Sherlock? You always tell me jack shit and then expect me to just obey you blindly? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

John’s mouth dropped open, before he snapped it shut, jaw tightening. “You are unbelievable! I’m going with you; this whole argument right now is an exercise in futility. And I’m—“

“Staying here!” John flinched at the shout of interruption. His gray eyes bright against the orange of the flames, Sherlock stalked over and snatched papers off the coffee table, looming over John. “This registration means you are my responsibility! I’m liable for your health. Safety. Protection. You are mine! _You are mine_ and I need you here while I solve this!”

Eyes wide, John took a shaky breath while Sherlock stood frozen, as if startled by his own words. “You think they—“ John faltered, head nearly spinning with uncollected thoughts. _“_ The people that did all that—you think they’re going to, what? Get me?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock took a step back, dropping his eyes to the pages he clutched. “I’m not taking the chance. _I’m not_.” He ended fiercely.

John’s heart pounded in his ears, throat dry as bleached bone. “Sherlock—No one is going to—“

Pages quickly discarded by his side, Sherlock took a single step forward, closing the distance, and cupped John’s jaw with his large hand, leaning down and resting his forehead against the other’s, eyes closed. Startled to stillness, John froze at the contact.

“Stay. Please, John. For me.” Sherlock whispered and the pound inside John’s head became a thunderous rush so loud he would have swayed had Sherlock not been holding on, grounding him. The thought of Sherlock leaving without him was abhorrent. Something hideous and upsetting beyond measure. He might be Sherlock’s, but just as equally Sherlock was his and every piece of him rankled at the thought of his possession leaving his side.

“I know it’s difficult,” Sherlock said quietly against him.

“You can’t.” John managed after a terrible beat of silence. “ **You can’t.”**

"I've left before without you, John. On cases, to the shops..."

"This is **different**." John's tone was clearly confused and distressed. 

“I’m not leaving. I’m … It’s just a temporary departure. John, it’s unrealistic that we should be at each other’s side constantly. I’ll be quick. I just need to check something. And I’ll come right back. I promise.”

* * *

 

He’d let him go, of course. He was a person, not an object, as much as John's dragon-brain fought to understand the distinction. Even though only eight minutes had passed since Sherlock’s departure for Scotland Yard, John paced the length of the flat, from kitchen to window and back again, feeling so off balance and canted to the right, then left, and then right again he felt as if might topple over at any given minute.

Toying with his mobile in his hand, he berated himself for considering sending the man a text.

He was fine. This was fine. He could do this. It’s fine. Sherlock was coming back. He was. John was fine ( _fine fine fine_ ).

He found himself snarling at the time with every passing minute, an odd twitch of satisfaction welling inside him at the primal act. Even as his belly rumbled a protest of hunger, he tossed the feeling aside as a growl left his throat. His hand clutched around his phone as he felt the aching bend of his glamour that came with such distress and anxiety.

Once more about-turning at the kitchen, he stalked his way back to the window in the living room, pushing aside the heavy curtain with a shove. An irritated snarl coursed through his chest, glaring at the rainstorm before him as if it were the very cause of this whole situation.

Glowering down on those passing quickly on the streets, all gray and nameless figures, he did a double take on the one lone and still figure on the pavement, a sleek, ebony towncar directly behind.

Oh, _great_.

* * *

 

John hadn’t bothered with his jacket, taking the stairs two at a time as he made his way before flinging the door with a ‘bang’, brass knocker clanging.

Mycroft lifted his umbrella ever so slightly, giving a cursory, almost bored glance down the sidewalk before his eyes slid over to John.

“He’s not here.” He snapped, letting the heavy rain immediately soak into his hair and t-shirt, lifting his chin up at the man as he made his way down the short steps.

“Yes, I know. I’m here to speak to you, Doctor Watson.”

“Of course you are.” John said sarcastically. “And as always Mycroft, I do have a mobile number.”

“Mm. Well.” Mycroft gave a toothless smile. “I wish to have an in-person discussion with you, but perhaps we could get out of this drizzle?”

Mycroft would be one to call such a downpour a _drizzle_ , the utter prat. John set his jaw and crossed his arms. “You can't come inside.” 

“Just to the car, Doctor Watson.” There was a pregnant pause. “That’s not a request.” Mycroft opened the back door, propping it open while he shook and closed his umbrella, climbing inside.

* * *

 

The smell of leather and suede was unusually strong as John situated himself, fighting the reflex to sneeze at the scent. He sat opposite Mycroft and to his surprise, Anthea, who was even more shockingly not on her Blackberry. Ankles neatly crossed, her perfectly manicured hands lay in her lap, eyes fixated on John intently, her face vigilantly void of any expression. John stared back, a bit unnerved, before he combed fingers through his hair, feeling a pathetic stab of petty satisfaction as he dripped water onto the upholstery.

“Fine then. I’m here. What is it?” He asked sharply, directing his focus to Mycroft.

“I would imagine you know precisely why I’m here.”

“Right then,” John crossed his arms and glared. “Get to it.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I think you should know that I have nothing against dragons, Doctor Watson.”

“Oh, I know that’s bollocks. Sherlock's told me--”

A small chirp emanated to his right, which John realized was the gentle clearing of a throat. Anthea leaned forward and smiled and the smallest breadth of a second, John saw a double-set of fangs that snapped for his neck.

He recoiled, a shout nearly clearing his throat, before putting his hand to his mouth in surprise.

“Oh my God—“

“That’s right, John.” Mycroft brushed the back of his fingers against his pant-leg for no discernable reason other than as a nonchalant gesture as John tried to calm his heart that beat double-time in his chest. “Anthea is a dragon. Full-born, and well into her two-hundredth year.”

“I just…I thought…” John stumbled, feeling the same stab of insecurity he felt at Kali’s flat. A fearful, instinctual part of his brain alerting him to a danger he couldn’t see, only now feel as her glamour partly fell way. There was something much larger and lethal than him in the small enclosure of a car. Anthea merely sat back, sized him up and down once, before looking back out the window, seemingly bored.

“Doctor Watson, I have nothing against dragons,” Mycroft continued quietly, an impatient edge to his tone. “What I take issue with are, shall we say, your particular set of conflicting instincts.”

“What—what the _hell_ are you going on about?”

Mycroft turned his focus down to his umbrella, twisting the handle in his hand as he began, “Several years ago researchers came upon a pack of wolves who had bred with several loose canines in a small village, several hundreds miles away from the nearest major city. As such, their subsequent breedings created a hybrid group of wolf-dogs—“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Mycroft continued sharply. “These researchers soon discovered that these hybrid packs were more violent and vicious than any wolf-pack recorded in Alaska and do you know why?” Before John could react, he continued. “Now, wolf-dogs are surprisingly common in North America and their perception among the general public is found to be profoundly negative due to their Canis lupus ancestry.

“Incorrectly, for the public per usual. Researches quickly found that what made them more vicious was not the fact they had ‘wild’ lineage, but it was their ‘domestic’ line that made them unpredictable. As it were, their unruly, domesticated canine heritage conflicted greatly with the much more stable wolf-line. Hence, conflicting instincts.”

“Oh, that is _bullshit_.”

“You,” Mycroft snapped, eyes locking to John’s. “Doctor Watson, have conflicting instincts. You are greatly unpredictable, ill-tempered and impulsive. Full-dragons are patient, calculating and…” He glanced at Anthea. “…Intelligent. You, on the other hand, are the very worst kind of dangerous.”

“I am not.” John snarled and leaned forward, eyes flicking to Anthea who straightened her posture, eyes narrowing severely. “I am not dangerous!”

“Then explain Afghanistan.”

John’s brain all but stuttered on the spoken word, pulling his body back as if struck.

“What?” He breathed.

_He hurt._

“Maiwand, Doctor Watson. Several kilometers outside the city and your comrades, unaware of your breed status—”

“You shut it right now Mycroft—“

_…he burned he burned he burned..._

“A firefight, dead allies and your injury. A village burnt to the ground—“

“I am not joking, Mycroft!” _Another word. Another word and he’d…he’d…_

“Sir.” Anthea said firmly, placing a hand to Mycroft’s chest staring back at John in a clear warning.

Mycroft brushed a hand through his hair as if to collect himself, and a terrible smile passed across his face as he gently brushed Anthea aside and leaned slowly forward. John felt his hands shake in barely contained restraint, glamour twisting around him in a painful bind, fury swelling in his chest as his heart hammered.

“I would assume you wish me to get to the point, which I am glad to provide. If you cause anymore harm, directly or indirectly, to my brother, I will have you in a muzzle and chains within the hour.”

“I saved his life!” John exploded as Mycroft sat back, unimpressed. “On that beach, he would have been shot! I saved his bloody life you, you _utter_ —“

“And in the building? The financial building you and Sherlock illegally entered? It burned to the ground did it not? Now what caused that?”

“That, that’s…That was a…” John stumbled, finding himself once more on loose footing, struggling to stay standing. “I didn’t—“

“Do you even remember burning it down? Burning my brother?”

“I—How—“

“I have the ability to see everything in my country, Doctor. To once more reiterate, you get Sherlock Holmes harmed, and you go in a cage.” Mycroft rapped on the window twice.

John felt pale, ill and cold to his very bones. He flinched as the door next to him suddenly opened and the bear of a driver pulled him out of the car.

* * *

 

“Well?”

Lestrade sighed, hooking a finger to the knot of his tie and tugging down a touch, exhausted. “We don’t know yet, these things take time.”

“If you’d let me—“

“No.” Greg pointed a finger to Sherlock, who sat back down against the desk dropping Kali’s file back to the desk, giving an exasperated grunt. “We do this my way, by the book. We’re doing what you said— _suggested_ , and if we get it, I’ll let you know.”

“For God’s sake, it should take ten minutes, fifteen tops!”

“Not when it involves another agency it don’t.”

“Doesn’t.”

“What’s that?”

“ _Nothing_.” Sherlock leaned back on the desk and glared up at the hideously stained ceiling. How does a _ceiling_ get stained? He sighed and closed his eyes.

“We’re running financials, not a driver’s license. This could take a while, go home and I’ll text you.”

“I know it’s them Lestrade.”

“Well, we need evidence, don’t we now.”

“Lestrade, this is so simple, Anderson could follow—“

“Hey, now…”

“They’re leaking information to this despicable family. This despicable family is out there right now looking for their next target. We can identify this family by bringing those two in for questioning at the very least—“

“Sherlock, when it involves our own we don’t take it lightly. We need at least _something_ in order to question them. Listen, I believe you. Fairly sure at least.” He admitted with a shrug. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Listen, go home.”

“I’m not until they’re brought in and questioned. Not until we catch this family. Not one more attack.”

“Since when the hell do you care—Oh.” Lestrade winced and brought a Styrofoam cup of luke-warm coffee to his lips. “Right.” He murmured.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the Detective Inspector, but said nothing.

Greg tossed the cup and after a beat, “You can’t _really_ believe it’s the wyvrens. I mean, they’re the same species…”

“Different race.” Sherlock replied with a shrug.

“Yeah but—“

“Human beings are the same species and yet some are inclined to discriminate on race. Dragon on dragon harm is hardly stranger than human on human. Add on a hefty financial incentive—“

“Sir!”

Lestrade glanced up, uncrossing his arms nodding to a young sergeant who brought several pages of faxes.

“Thanks,” Lestrade nodded and handed them directly to Sherlock, who immediately plopped them on the desk.

“Well?” Lestrade asked after a minute, hands on his hips.

“Look, here. These dates.” Sherlock pointed to several lines on the statement, dragging a finger down. “£10,000 to each account exactly seven days after every single attack.”

“Bloody hell. From who?”

“Can’t say yet, cash deposits. We can look at the CCTV for those dates and times for the street outside these banks along with the banks’ own cameras and documents, or we can bring them in and ask.”

“Right then. But how did you know it was them to begin with?”

Sherlock stood straight, turning to Lestrade. “It makes perfect sense!”

Lestrade blinked at him.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead, clenching his jaw. “The wyvrens these uh,” he glanced down at the pages. “These Koreli brothers, they run the I.T. department, which runs through every new dragon registration into the various police databases.” For emphasis, he pointed at the various files of victims. “Each victim was a new registrant to London. Kali Keyton was only in the city for a few weeks before her attack. In fact, each victim was only here and registered for a matter of weeks before each attack.”

“So.” Lestrade glanced up and nodded sharply to the sergeant. “Bring in Stephen and Smith Koreli. Take the second unit with you as backup.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Lestrade turned back to Sherlock, giving him an open-handed, light slap on the shoulder. “Good work there, Sherlock. As usual. Feel better?”

Surprisingly, yes, he did. The knot in his stomach loosened a touch. He nodded to Lestrade, letting out a breath.

“I’ll get them brought in now.”

“Yes, it must be immediately.”

“There’s no true pattern to the attacks, Sherlock, you can’t know they’re searching right this very second.”

Sherlock shook his head. “They do have a pattern, it just has nothing to do with the date it has everything to do with the days.”

“I’m sorry?”

“ _Think!_ Each attack within the last several months had this factor in common for the day—“

“The rain.” Lestrade breathed, staring out the window at the downpour. “Not just rain, a storm. A gale.”

Sherlock blinked, and nodded. “That’s right.”

“Of course. Dragons are slow in the rain, difficult for fire—“

“All but impossible for fire,” Sherlock corrected. “Easier to contain. Control.”

“Right then,” Lestrade turned, snatching the radio from his desk, he gave Sherlock a curt nod. “I’m going with them for this take-in. I’m on it.”

Sherlock nodded back. “I know you are.” He watched as Lestrade jogged down the hallway toward his team.

Relief fluttered through his veins. The horrible, anxious clutch in his chest remained, however it had lifted an inch. He got them. He was right. _Of course he was right._ But he had evidence now. Lestrade was on it. They’d get them, arrest them, charge them and they wouldn’t harm anyone else again. John was safe.

He jerked as his trouser pocket vibrated and he caught a quick glimpse at the clock on the wall. He winced. He’d been at the yard for nearly three hours. Damnit.

Withdrawing his mobile, he answered as he began walking to the door.

“We’ve nearly got them. I’ll explain when I’m home, I’m on my way now—”

“Oh, good!” Came a feminine voice that did not belong to John at all. “I was worried about you boys.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock frowned as he hit the front door, shoving it open and making his way to the slicked streets. Rain pounded like heavy static, and he shielded his phone as best he could with his arm.

“I’d come home and the front door was wide open! And in this weather! The landing is splattered! And you’d left your fire on. Sherlock I’ve told you, both of you, how it’s important to put it out when you leave—“

“ _Leave_?” Sherlock froze, a chill cutting through his core. “Where’s John? Is John there?”

“What was that? You’re a bit hard to hear—“

“Is. John. There?” He searched the streets, traffic packed tight. Where were the cabs? _Where were the cabs?_

“No, dear he isn’t—“

“Are you certain? Mrs. Hudson, are you absolutely _certain_?”

“Dear, I might be old but I’m not blind. What’s this all about?“

His hand shook as he pulled it away from his ear, droplets smearing his glass touchscreen as he speed-dialed John.

It rang. Sherlock paced up to the building of the Yard, plugging one ear to better listen. It rang. John was fine. Sherlock was being ridiculous. He’d taken too long. John’s impatient, he was probably on his way to the Yard now. He hadn’t explicitly forbade John from leaving. Sherlock was being ridiculous, worrying as he was. It rang. Maybe he went and picked up some food. Or just stepped out. Was he taking a shower? No, Mrs. Hudson would hear that…It rang—

“Hello, Sherlock? It’s me again. John’s phone is here—”

_Oh no. No no no no._

Sherlock dropped his arm and looked up to the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments~! They definitely help me write! :D
> 
> Catch me on
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	5. Chapter 5

John was six years old when he broke his arm. It changed his entire world.

He had lost his footing and crashed down, down and down. Bark and branch had bitten at his elbow and palms, and he landed with such a thud the air collapsed straight out of his lungs. There was a sickening snap, what he would later learn was his ulna, and a flare of sweeping pain. However, the most vivid portion of the memory was Harry's horrified scream. 

He had blinked up to the pale blue sky, feeling upside down, right side up and sideways all at once. His stomach ached with sudden nausea and his eyes crisscrossed, unfocused. He had twisted in the grass, trying to regain some semblance of balance, only to see an upside down version of his sister's brown barn coat retreating into the distance. Her trainers kicked up dirt as she ran fast away from him. 

John was dazed, afraid to move. Anxiety crept through his body and his heart began to beat in sharp, rapid spikes. He felt the urge to cry, but realized he couldn’t, but hadn’t questioned it at the time. He blinked blearily beyond the many trees and over a moss covered log as he watched his mother dash up and over, her yellow skirt catching against a ragged branch. 

Harry followed closely behind, her eyes streaming tears, hiccupping and panting. Her face was shocked-white save for her bright red, wind-whipped cheeks. 

"Johnny," his mother was on her knees and at his side, her eyes large and dark and wrought with shock. She touched a part of him and he winced with pain, an unusual moan releasing from his mouth. "Oh no...oh God, please no...oh sweetheart..."

"S-s-see?" Harry hiccupped again, through sobs. "I-I-I t-told you!" She shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him. 

"Harry go back to the house," his mother’s tone was not to be denied, but Harry stomped her foot. 

"I didn't do anyth-thing! He just f-fell and then he-he just...just—!"

"HARRIET!" 

He remembered Harry had burst into tears, something she had never, ever done, and about-faced, running back through the forest once more. 

John had flailed then, attempting to right himself. Everything had felt awkward. Heavy and cumbersome and distinctly _not right_. He didn’t understand. Didn’t understand why his limbs felt weak, as if filled with lead. Didn’t understand why it felt like had had more limbs than he knew he had. Didn’t understand that when the hurt spiraled he had snarled another unusual moan in pain. The sound of his own voice scared him. 

"Oh sweetheart, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." He had looked up, his mother’s eyes were wet, her hands trembling against his side as if afraid to touch him. "Oh God, I don't know... I don't know what to do--"

" **Mummy**..."

His mother flinched, hands pulling away from him, using her palm and wrist to wipe her eyes, smearing her mascara. Her mouth dropped open as she attempted to calm herself and lean closer to him.

"John...?"

" **Mummy up. Mummy up p-please** ," he managed, feeling dumb, feeling like a baby. But the numbing adrenaline was waning and the pain was swiftly seeping. His left arm and shoulder began to crackle with pain. He wanted to be soothed. To feel secure and to have his mum take the pain away.

"You...You’re…" His mother stopped, brushing her long, blonde bangs from her face to tuck behind her ear. She took a breath and looked into his eyes, searching. "Mummy can't pick you up now, okay?”

“ **W-why**?”

“You’re… You're too big… too heavy for Mummy right now. Okay honey?"

He remembered thinking—Too heavy? Since when?

"Does it hurt John? Does something hurt?" At his shaky nod, his Mum cupped her palm against his cheek. Her small hand felt cold and made his face feel strange. “Tell Mummy what hurts baby.”

" **A-arm** ," he went to wiggle but thought better of it. He gave a glance up to the large tree. “ **Fell**.”

His mum was silent for a few moments. Maybe she would be mad because he knew better than to climb.

Instead, she gave a deep sigh and cleared her throat. “I need you to try and… I can’t get you fixed up like this, John. I need you try and focus and turn back, okay? Can you do that for me? Can you just try?”

John was desperate to please, but had no idea what she meant. He felt scared again. “ **T-try what**?”

His mother stared at him. “Try and turn back into a boy?”

John didn’t remember much after that.

* * *

 

The hot chips all but melted in his mouth. Starch and salt, it was like a Godsend and his stomach rumbled in quiet thanks. John eyed the beer taps, watching the bartenders pull each glass and hand them to the waiting patrons. Alcohol sounded surprisingly unappealing. He picked at his chips basket, popping another into his mouth, sinking lower into his booth and quietly people watching. People who conversed and laughed and took selfies and played darts. Normal people. Doing normal people things.

It was always strange to indulge in this—people watching. He always felt a bit like an outsider, always looking in, always _just_ on the outside. He’d never felt more so than in this moment.

Out of sheer habit, his hand went to his front jeans’ pocket, again, only to roll his eyes, again. No mobile, of course. Left it at the flat. Even his coat. Blast. Instead, John twisted his wrist to glance at his watch. Only an hour since he saw Mycroft, but the anger still flared, raw, as if he were right back in that towncar.  

There was a gnawing in the back of his mind, singularly focused on one thing—Sherlock. He knew where he was and who he was with, but the terribly possessive portion seemed unable to calm itself, especially now, with Mycroft’s threats.

If Mycroft thought he could take Sherlock from him, then the man would truly see what the ‘worst kind of dangerous’ really was.

_He’d kill him first._

John sat back, stunned as the words slipped into his mind with abject clarity, a chip falling from his hand and onto the table. That was the thing, wasn’t it? The scary, scary thing. He hadn’t meant that. Not _him_ , not John Watson. But it was there, sneaking, snaking its way into his thoughts. And he knew it was wrong but it felt right. Welcome. A wretchedly pleasurable thought of keeping what was his through destruction.

 _Fuck_. He reached, snatching the chip from the table and tearing it apart with his fingers, before popping the shredded bits into his mouth. Attempting to think of anything, literally anything else than his current fixation.

Thankfully, a server swung by his booth, nodding at the basket, clipping a pen to his shirt collar. He motioned to John. “All set then, mate?”

“Ta,” John replied, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Luckily, he never had that too far from hand. “What do I owe?”

The server gave a chuckle, and motioned. “Covered then mate. The bird at the bar.”

John frowned, wallet in hand. “I’m sorry, what’s that?”

The server gave a deliberate turn and more direct motion. “The brunette at the bar. Gray jacket. She got ya mate.”

“She… oh. Uh.” John looked, peering through the low light. There was, indeed, a brunette with a gray jacket, seated and partially obscured by the bar. She was quite pretty, with pale skin and curled hair in a messy bun. Her eyes were down, focused on her drink, stirring the straw in a lazy motion. In a flick, her eyes rose and met his. She smiled.

“Right then uh, thanks.” The server nodded and moved on and John slid out of the booth, tucking his wallet back with a bit of a fumble into his pocket. He tapped his fingers against his leg, glancing at the pub door, before looking back over to the woman.

She winked.

Giving a sigh, he relented and approached.

“That was quite kind of you, but you didn’t need to do that.” John said mildly.  

“You looked like you were having a rough evening,” she replied, tipping her straw into her mouth with a tilt of her head. “Never seen a man look so happy with a basket of potatoes,” her tone was light and teasing. “Most men come from work, they need a strong drink but you…”

“What can I say? I’m a cheap date.” John shrugged and allowed a small, rueful smile.

“Mm,” she acknowledged, her eyes skimming him up and down.

He felt his entire frame give a fully body flush. How long had it been since a woman had looked at him like that?

He cleared his throat, giving a curt nod. “Well, uh, thank you. But I really ought to be heading home.”

“Mm,” she said again and gave him what he could only describe as a playful pout. “That’s a shame, that. Can’t we chat just a bit more?”

His thoughts tugged back to Sherlock. To what was happening with the case, but primarily, to where the man was at the moment. That crawling sensation of anxiety was back, breaking in under his skin. His fingers itched near his front pocket again, feeling lost without his mobile. Lost without another connection to Sherlock.

John shook his head and took a step back, “No. No thank you I really need to…”

She reached suddenly, eyes shuttering from flirty to firm, touching the top of his hand which rested against the bar top. She slipped her hand under his and gripped his wrist before he could even think to move it away. His knees nearly buckled at the contact but he had gone rigid, body locking as he stared at her, dumbfounded.

Her grip was tight and she tugged once and his body, to his horror, obeyed, taking a step forward. She gave another smile but it lacked the original warmth. If anything, it looked a bit sad. “There’s a lad. Now. You’re going to follow me out of here. Calmly and orderly. And you aren’t going to harm me, now are you?”

 _No, he wouldn’t harm her. No. Not at all. The thought is repulsive beyond measure._ John knew the intrusive thoughts weren't quite his own, and quickly realized he couldn’t speak, couldn’t get his mouth and jaw to work properly. With that realization, his heart began to hammer and a tremor ran through him.

As if sensing, she shushed him gently. “Shh, you’re fine. You're fine then. Keep that glamour up then, alright love? No need to make a scene in front of all these people, hm?”

_No, of course not. He wouldn’t dream of it. Never._

“There’s a boy. You will do as I say, and you can thank your ancestors for it, yeah?” She chuckled and reached, running her free hand through his hair and down his neck. John wanted to cringe, her touch wholly unwelcome, bitter against his skin. But he still couldn’t move, couldn’t twitch from her hand. Every human instinct shouted to wrench from her grasp, to push her away and yet. He couldn’t. His other, currently more powerful side, was frozen solid with complete obedience.

She continued, voice very soft, meant just for him, hyper aware of the other patrons. “You’ll just be gorgeous, won’t you? Gold and bronze. And so _young_ ”, her smile was now broad. John felt a tightness in his throat he couldn’t swallow away. "We can't wait to see the real you."

Keeping her hold firmly around his wrist, her body turned off its seat and she stood, rounding the tabletop. John stared at her body, now fully revealed, and felt an indescribably protective surge course through him.

 _Egg_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken forever but NO it is not a dead fic. I really appreciate your patience, I have a lot more written with the next chapter nearly complete. I really just need to work on piecing everything I've written together to make an ending :)
> 
> I really appreciate your kind comments and gracious kudos more than you could ever know. THANK YOU.


	6. Chapter 6

The times when Sherlock ran it was usually exhilarating. A chase, a lead, a suspect—however now it only filled him with terror. An inescapable _knowing_ that drilled into his brain sharper than any tool was capable. As he ran now, shocks of pain began to strike at his shins, his knees—how long had he been running now? Never matter. No cabs, too much traffic, no time to stop, no choice but to run to John, to home. But the _knowing_ was there, a terrible force to be reckoned with.

As he ran, he dialed Lestrade. Voicemail. Again. God damnit.

By the fourth attempt, his mobile died, winking out on the second ring.  

Desperation clung to him, almost as heavy as the rain that had soaked through his shoes and socks. The water crept up his trousers as he rounded the final block. His lungs hurt— _shouldn’t have kept smoking_ —he thought bitterly, as he hurried up the final steps.

Flinging the door open, Mrs. Hudson gave a shout of surprise, nearly dropping a bucket and Sherlock balked as she stood right before him.

“Sher—“

“Where is his phone?” Sherlock approached and the landlady gave his drenched form a quick once over. He gave himself several deep breaths, trying and probably failing, at attempting to catch it. He must certainly look like a man possessed.

“I’ve just mopped up the mess from earlier and now you’ve splattered it all again—“

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouted, wincing immediately as the woman flinched before him. Placing gentle hands on her shoulders, he attempted again to calm himself. “Please, listen to me. John is missing, and something…something has happened, I _know_ it. Please, I need your help. _Please_.”

The woman was quick to switch her approach before him, dropping the mop and bucket with a clatter as she dug into her apron, producing John’s slim iPhone. “Where’s he gone? Who has him?” She asked urgently.

“I know who but I don’t know who,” Sherlock answered distractedly as he thumbed through John’s phone, ignoring his landlady’s confused eyes. Sherlock growled. “No recent incoming or outgoing… no recent texts…” The man turned, bounding up the landing steps to their flat. Mrs. Hudson was quick to follow.

Nothing in the entire flat showed indications of a struggle. His shoes were gone, but his coat still rested dry on the coffeetable.

_Lured lured lured… how would they lure him out of the flat? What got him outside? THINK._

“Sherlock, love, I think you’d better take a moment—“

He could feel her concern like a physical touch. He threw it off with a growl.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snarled. He held the mobile tightly, and for a small moment, it felt as if he were gripping John’s own hand. “I shouldn’t have left him. I shouldn’t have left him for a single moment…” he muttered to himself.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“Quiet,” he snapped.  

Using John’s phone, he dialed and glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who had gone silent yet wide eyed before him. When John was back home, his and safe again, Sherlock would apologize. But for now, he only had a single concern.

The phone clicked. “ _John?”_

Finally. Sherlock forced himself to take a breath, “No, Sherlock. Have you found them?”

There was a bit of an echo as Lestrade responded, “ _Yeah, got the brothers. Both of ‘em. Listen, Sherlock is John there with—“_

“Did they tell you who they were working for? With? Who the family is? The humans?”

“ _The… the what?_ “

“The family Lestrade! Give me a name!”

“ _Uh, r-right… Got a last name of Broadhill, first name Patrick. Two live-ins_ —“

“An address!”

“ _Fucking Christ_ ,” a shuffle on the other end and a deeper echo. “ _They’ve already got John, haven’t they…Jesus. Then they wouldn’t be at their own residence.”_

Sherlock sucked in a breath. “What do you mean ‘already’?”

_“Was just about to ring you.  Just now literally got out of them on who their next target is: Watson. He was the most recent registrant they processed.”_

Yes, of course. Sherlock’s eyes darted over to the numerous pages of licenses and papers John had left scattered on the table.

" _According to them, the others are already on the move, capitalizing on the weather_."

“Where are the possible locations? Where have you found all the… the bodies?” At Sherlock’s question, he heard a soft gasp from Mrs. Hudson. He had completely forgotten she was there.

“ _All over, as I’ve said_ ,” it sounded as if Lestrade was walking now. “ _But based on_ —“

It all clicked. “You’re to head north of Baker Street, to Regent's Park,” Sherlock spun, his thick and still soaking coat swinging heavily at the motion. He headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll head south, to Hyde.”

“ _What_ —“

“Shut up!” He shouted as he reached and yanked open a drawer. One of John’s handguns gleamed as he gripped it. The man could practically feel Mrs. Hudson’s startled eyes on his back.

“Stop asking questions. Stop talking. Get to Regent's. Take your team. GO.” He pulled the mobile away and hung up. John’s gun was a hefty, cool weight in his palm. He took a moment to consider, before confirming the safety and stowing it in his waistband. Pocketing John’s mobile, he glanced at Mrs. Hudson. Her hand was to her mouth and her eyes were watery. She was utterly silent.

"I'm bringing John home," he managed. He knew he should say something more comforting. Something reassuring to put her mind at ease. But his eyes probably told her a different story than his voice in that moment ever could. A single thought that ran like a livewire through his brain.

_If they hurt John… I’ll put a bullet into each and every one of them._

_John was his,_ his _, and how dare they, **how DARE they** —_

Before he could shake out of his thoughts, or think of a lie to placate her, she dropped her hand and lifted her chin.

“You bring him home, Sherlock.” She looked to his belt and back to his eyes. “Quite right.”

Sherlock stared, before simply nodding and bolting down the steps.

Exiting the flat, he took a deep, hard inhale, letting the rain soak back into his clothes and skin once more. While traffic had dissipated since his departure from Scotland Yard, the sun had long since set, and a chilled wind swept through the streets. The rain was a relentless force. Glancing, he found no cabs, and began to head south, his pace brisk. Setting his jaw, he pulled out John’s mobile and dialed.

The phone clicked after three rings. Sherlock had already pulled the breath needed into his lungs to snarl.

“You stay the Hell away from John, do you hear me?” It was as quietly vicious a tone as he had ever given to his brother. It was obvious by the stunned, albeit brief, silence on the other line.

“ _We merely had a conversation,”_ Mycroft began, his tone hesitantly defensive. The detective tightened his grip on the mobile. “ _As you know, I have …concerns_. _I only seek to protect you_.”

“John protects me,” Sherlock snapped back immediately, hopping off a curb and cross the street. “It’s because of _you_ he’s missing.”

“ _We had a brief conversation in my vehicle before he was deposited, safely mind you, back at the steps of Baker Street. I have no idea where you’re getting_ —“

“I don’t have the time to explain to you,” he growled. “Simply this statement: You do not come at him again, do you understand?”

" _What I understand_ ," Mycroft enunciated clearly. " _Is that this bond between you two is unhealthy, potentially dangerous.."_

"You do not take what is mine!" Sherlock struggled briefly to gather the breath to speak, his chest was so tight. Why was this so difficult for people to understand? Why was he the only one to get this? How many more times did it need to be repeated?

“ _Sherlock_ ,” for all his cool exterior, and calm demeanor, his brother sounded mildly alarmed. “ _What is going on? What is the matter with you?_ ”

Rankling, Sherlock snarled, “You stay away from what is mine,” he repeated, his only thought where his brother was concerned. “He isn’t yours, he’s _mine_. If you come near him, if you _ever_ come to take him from me I swear I’ll—“ despite his anger, he couldn’t say it, couldn’t say the words out loud. But it lingered like a pin in the air. The silence was loud enough, his brother had to have heard it.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft breathed quietly. " _What have you two done_?"

Sherlock hung up the phone.

_Stupid human._

Through the rain, he began to run again.


	7. Chapter 7

John found himself immediately blinded, a heavy fabric being tied around his face, obscuring his eyes and covering down to his nose. He’d bucked his head and gasped out a curse at her as she wrapped it single handedly around his face. At this, she’d squeezed his wrist. “Shut up and stop struggling. And don’t touch it,” she’d told him. Despite his free arm that the woman did not hold, he wasn’t able to rip it off or push her away, this compulsion to obey rendering him useless.

Sightless, the sounds of the city were much harsher than he was used to. The woman’s kitten heels clicked sharply on the street beside him, the corduroy of her coat rubbing against his arm with soft, irritating  _swishes_. Rubbish bins clanged with the heavy rainfall. Abruptly, the sounds of vehicles spraying water along the curbs as they passed decreased as she corrected his path, guiding him down concrete stairs—ten, eleven, twelve— to where he could only assume would be a much more private area.

_The name of the bar. Egg. The woman—brown hair, messy bun, gray jacket—The waiter! The waiter saw her. Served her. Did you see his name tag? What did he look like again? Receding street noises. Twelve steps going down. Egg._

He had to remember. He had to remember _everything_.

Quite suddenly, the ground beneath his shoes began to soften—grass—and he rapidly tried to remember to do all the right things. Dragging his feet, he left several imprints, digging into the mud to imprint the heel of his shoe. Using his free arm, he subtly touched the back pocket of his jeans—his wallet. If he could reach without her seeing, he could drop it and—

She jerked his wrist hard. “Keep up,” she snapped. “Stop being difficult.”

His arm dropped limply to his side just as he remembered something horrific.

Kali Keyton, and her simple yet effective descriptions.

_“Hooked me down. Quick. Very quick. Everything wet.” She had waved her hand in front of her eyes. “Blocked.”_

He shivered, from the memory and from the freezing rain which sleeted down his arms and soaked into his hair. As calm as his body portrayed, a storm of both fright and fury was rattling inside him. He had no idea what to do with this dangerous energy. He simply _couldn’t_ do anything with it. It was being denied and he felt as if he might just implode.

_Someone will come. Sherlock. Sherlock will find—_

“ _This_ is him?”

John jerked at the male voice, deep and deceptively slumberous, as a bat came down and across his shins. It took but half a moment to realize that no, he wasn’t struck across his legs, but that he had been shoved down into the grass, the impact striking his knees as he landed with an unexpected force.

“Nathan!” The woman hissed in surprise, and John realized in his brief shock that she’d released him for half a second, but regained a hold on his arm while he had recovered. _Fuck. Fuck!_

There was a chuckle directly behind him.

“ _He’s_ the one you said can talk?” The man sounded bemused and John felt his jaw tighten. “What a buncha bullshit.”

“Oh hush, Nate. And give me that umbrella.”

“Fuck off. And that’s all fake propaganda bullshit. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Nathan, I said be quiet.”

John recoiled as he was suddenly cuffed across the ear. “Don’t tell me to do fuck all Sara, I’m not one of these fuckin’ things. That freak inside you don’t command me to do shit!”

The woman, Sara, fell into what John could only assumed was a stunned silence. The hard grasp she held on his forearm also told him it was an angry silence as well.

“To Hell with you, Nathan. I’ll get him to talk when—“

“Oh, you’re so full of—“

“Will you two SHUT UP!” Came a roar, and John instinctively curled down over his knees, letting the rain beat down on his back. A heavy vehicle door squeaked before slamming shut, and weighty boots stomped across the wet lawn. Sara shuddered against him and they had both fallen silent.

A snap of fingers, “You, get the prep. And _you_ ,” there was a telling silence. “You better not fuck up again.”

“T-that was not my fault that she got away! You’d yanked too hard and made me let go and t-that—“

“No excuses! We got one more month before you’re useless to me. Your only contribution has been your condition. Get these animals obedient for us to work on. Understand?”

“Y-yes. He won’t be a problem. I m-mean he hasn’t been a problem—“

“Good. Registration chart says he’s only twenty hands, six-hundred-eighty kilos. Dealt with bigger—“

“Much bigger,” came the younger man’s voice in the distance.

“Shut up, Nathan.” There was a contemplative pause. “He’s being pretty quiet.”

“I-I told him to be.”

“Mm.” The boots crossed a distance and John braced himself for anything. There was a shuffling of clothing, the man kneeling down. He smelled of petrol and copper.

“Chart also says you got a sister—“

John froze, the air in his lungs seizing.

“—would she like to join you? Is she like you, too?” At John’s forced silence, he heard the man shift on his feet. “Tell him to answer.”

“Answer now. The truth. But don’t you do anything sketchy.”

John shook his head. “No.” Water dripped down his temples, soaking into the blindfold, making it suffocating.

“No?” Another deliberate, excruciating pause. “You sure?”

John nodded. The hands at his sides clenched into fists. He could feel the muscles in his arm strain and flex. Useless. Restrained.

_Sherlock. Greg. Someone. Please._

“She isn’t like me.” He managed to answer evenly.

“And that’s the truth?”

John nodded. “Yes.”

A chuckle. “I’m sure your mum’s proud of her, then.”

His lungs weren’t working. He’d never felt such ravenous hate. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t process.

There was rattling in the distance, getting closer. It sounded of metal chains, and the man stood as something dropped heavily directly behind him, enough to make him jump, startled.

“Got everything I think we need. You said he wasn’t that big—“

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous, what have I told you about—“

“I know, I know! I’m just… sayin’.” For several moments, the only sounds were the rain beating against leaves and his pulse rapidly against his neck. It was the most piercing quiet John had ever heard. Suddenly, “He’s gonna be mint, Dad. Just stellar.”

“He’s a half-breed. Probably spent his whole life pretending to be human. Not a single bit of damage I’d bet. Of course he’d be mint.” The men shifted again behind him, and Sara put a hand to his hair. It was gentle, almost comforting, and it settled like a bitter, scalding gall against his skin.

“You keep that blindfold on him, you hear? Keeps them calm. And he isn’t that big, so should hold. He doesn’t need to see us. Besides, he’s young enough. What we take should heal. Who knows? Maybe we find him again.”

The terror shattered, “Don’t do this. Please don’t—“

_Sherlock, where are you? Please…_

 “Silence then, love,” Sara said lowly, just for him, and John’s voice was gone, replaced with only small, panicked breaths. “I know pain can be a scary thing, but still do your best to be a good lad. If you aren’t, those two over there have tools to put you in your place and hold you there. Now, drop that glamour for me.”

John winced, a sharp and unbearably uncomfortable pressure built in his chest, threatening to snap.

But nothing happened.

Sara’s hold squeezed even tighter, but her grip strength wasn’t enough to truly harm, but his complete inability to escape her still made him mad with fright. “I said: Drop. That. Glamour.”

John’s head drummed with his heartbeat, and deep inside his chest, a band tightened with another piercing and painful tug. He struggled to breathe, and only managed to shake his head, still forced into silence.

“Sara!?” The man suddenly shouted and she jolted.

“J-just a second,” she called back before crouching down and snarling at him. “Are you trying to get me killed? Just what is your problem?” After his silence. “Speak!” She barked.

The bar against John’s throat lifted and he inhaled, “I… I can’t. I d-don’t…” He shook his head, understanding what was being asked, but not understanding how to obey.

He heard his mum, muffled in the back of his mind, in a memory he’d tucked away.

_“Johnny…Can you do that for me? Can you just try?”_

“Fucking Christ,” she shifted, her large belly swaying and bumping against him, her hand still around his arm. He heard her dig into her jacket pocket.

He felt the jolt before he could register what it could possibly be, a blinding bolt of pain that ripped into his ribs and locked his diaphragm with the shock of it.

His reaction was instantaneous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your comments! And I'm so sorry I keep expanding this to more and more chapters, it just never feels right and I keep adding more and more stuff and ... Sorry :/// BUT I have it nearly done. I am just stitching up portions that I have written so it all comes out in the end...
> 
> Thanks again :)


	8. Chapter 8

The exhaustion was stifling, burrowing into his bones, tendons and every leg muscle. He had never run so far, so fast, for so long.  As he jogged deeper into the park, a massive wind gust attempted to pull the warm air out of his lungs, winding and chilling him even further. He used an arm to shield his face and to look around the area, searching madly for clues, hints, bloody anything!

Mud caked his shoes, his trousers, and the ends of his coat and when he’d stopped near a large tree to gain his bearings, he realized, quite quickly, he was entirely out of his depth. The park he knew to be massive, and despite knowing which area to focus on, the area nearest Baker Street, it was still so overwhelming. He wasn’t quite sure where to start.

He trawled the area, torch out, scanning the mud, up in the trees looking for damage, through the brush looking for flattened areas…Searching for prints, vehicle tracks, anything that might aid him in locating where they could possibly be.

The location most certainly held a 50/50 probability that John was here, but he was sure to treat it as thoroughly as if it were 100%. He had to.

The time was heading closer to midnight, and with the storm he had yet to run into a soul. No witnesses, no one he could go up to, question; “Hello ma’am, have you seen this dragon?” Absolutely madness. But he do this, he would question, he would do his job, he would find someone, anyone—

He had to stop this.

He had to save one.

Please God, just let him save this _one_.

At 12:21 a.m., he received the call.

He’d closed his eyes and felt a terrible tweak inside his chest. He was soaked to the bone, shivering with dread, as the line disconnected.

Hands shaking, rain smearing the screen of his mobile, Greg Lestrade dialed.

“Sally, are you still en route? Good. Yeah, they’ve… they’ve found Watson…. No. Not…not good. But alive... I’m headed to their coordinates now. No, I need… Sally, _listen_ , I need you to do something for me. Yes, I’m … Yes, I _know_ , Donovan, just do this a’right? It’s an order. I’m going to need you to head to Hyde Park, along Bayswater Road nearest Baker Street. I’m… I’m gonna need you to call and bring in Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

 

 

It took her twenty minutes to reach the park, and Sally only let her police vehicle idle for a moment, before sucking in a breath and cutting the engine to brave the storm. She’d attempted, twice, to call Sherlock Holmes and yet the man’s phone went directly to voicemail. Scowling irritably, she ducked her way down a ramp further into the park area, forgoing any brolly or poncho. There was a strange, visceral satisfaction to running in the dark and rain that got her heart pumping.

The Sergeant hadn’t shouted for the detective, hadn’t bothered to yell his name, the winds howled too loudly. She merely weaved her way through the gardens, scanning the grounds quickly, torch out, her well-worn trainers navigating the area with deft efficiency.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to locate him and when she’d skittered to a startled stop before him, he took one look at her… and it was clear he knew.

He looked a total, sopping mess. And lost… His eyes were so lost and stunned to see her. For all his suits and polished, pretentious poise, she’d never witnessed him so disheveled and fraught.

Sally brushed her soaked hair back against her ear and managed to take a breath. “John—“

“Is he dead.” Holmes asked, devoid of any emotion. A stone mask had overwhelmed his face. He wasn’t looking at her, instead focusing along a path which led to The Serpentine.

“No, he isn’t,” she stated warily. “But I’m to bring you in.”

“Why? I can’t do anything for him now. I now have work to do.” His eyes flashed and Sally’s blood ran cold.

_One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there._

“ _Work_?” She asked, scrambling. “He’s alive, Holmes, did you hear me on that bit? They’ll be bringing him to the new specialty clinic under Bart’s, you can—Hey!”

He’s already turned away from her and Sally snapped.

“You don’t think I know that look?” Sally suddenly shouted to his back and the harsh, nearly strangled tone alone had Sherlock stopping in his tracks. “I’m a police officer, Holmes, lest you forget. There are laws we must abide, even in times when following them seems cruel or unfair. And if you think for _one second_ I don’t understand, that I can’t relate, that… that I haven’t known that helpless fear and the need to _do_ something… then you’re not nearly as brilliant as you believe yourself to be.”

His back to her, it’s all he could do but to just breathe as her words sunk into him. John’s gun, the weapon he’d taken with an explicit purpose, felt heavier than it had any right to be. Still tucked into his waistband, resting against the small of his back, it was obscured by his coat and the darkness. There is no way she could _see_ it... And yet he could feel her eyes crawling all over him. She had to see, had to know… she was too clever. But the Sergeant stayed silent, waiting for his reaction, observing his every move. She wasn’t a fool.

He pivoted, facing her, struggling to meet her eyes. “It’s all I can offer him.” He managed, somehow, to quietly respond.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if it such a statement made any sort of sense, but Sally gave a dejected, sympathetic sigh. “John wouldn’t want you to and you know it.” She regarded him, drawing herself up. Her dark whiskey-brown eyes held little warmth. “You’re the scalpel, Sherlock. That is what you offer. You are not the hammer.”

Trying to process her words, her meaning and expression, Sally suddenly jerked as a sharp, staccato buzz filled the air. Her hands went to her pocket, pulling out her mobile.

She threw him a silent admonishing look, as if warning him to stay put, as she answered. “Donovan.” After a beat, her gaze flicked back to Sherlock, and what her eyes held had Sherlock’s heart plummeting to his knees.

“I’ve found him, Inspector. Holmes—“ She was already extending her hand with the mobile right as Sherlock lurched for it.

“Lestrade?” He barked into the receiver as he snatched it from her grasp.

“ _I’ve been trying to call you—“_

“My mobile is dead,” he snapped, pacing away from Sally. Needing to move, needing to _keep moving._  

“ _Right_ , _… listen , I'd rather fill you in on an update when you're here, there's a doctor you'll need to meet...  I’m headed to 221 right now, I’ll need to know what to look for as far as_ —“

“You’re to stay with John!” Sherlock shouted, throwing an unnecessary hand into the air.

 _“Bloody Hell Sherlock will you stop cutting me off!?”_ Lestrade yelled back with equal force. “ _He's safe right now._   _I have an officer just outside the receiving room. And I all but guarantee you that no one from that family will come at him in the sodding hospital, a’right? They were already done with John when they left him there in the park.”_

It was the most hideous sentence in the English language. Nothing could possibly compare. The sudden, explicit visuals in Sherlock’s mind came unbidden.

_They were already done with John when they left them there in the park._

That was the reality.

He couldn’t breathe. It was a slow, agonizing strangulation that he couldn’t even fight.

He hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen it, but the crime scene was in his mind, his version no doubt more graphic than reality but it was there. A bloodied needle threading through his visual cortex.

No one had been there. No one had heroically swept in. No one had stopped it or had noticed it even happening… There was just the end result. Just John’s body, broken and wrecked, no doubt crumpled in grass and mud alone and found by people who _weren’t Sherlock._

That wasn’t right. That just wasn’t possible. How could he have possibly failed—

_He would kill them._

The thought pieced and seeped pleasurably inside a dark space of his mind.

“Sherlock.”

Sally, behind him. Again, forgetting he wasn’t alone. He turned to look. Her eyes were filled with confusion and concern, hands tentatively raised as if to grab him if he were to collapse. He wondered idly what she saw, for her to give him such a look.  

Lestrade was also speaking, calling his name, he realized, but it buzzed like a gnat in his ear.

An agonizing, heart-shattering compression was seizing inside his ribcage, rippling up through his throat. He felt his knees wobble at the ache and in an instant, Sally was at his side and holding his elbow.

“Sherlock, what is it? Are you—“

“I—“ He attempted to speak, to swallow through the hurt and concentrate, but it was nigh impossible. This wasn’t traditional pain—not a slit of a knife or the scald of heat—but a pressure within him. He had no idea how to ease it.

_He would hunt them down and burn every—_

Sally was reaching for his hand, reaching back for her mobile. With a suddenly focused snarl, he pulled away from her, raising his hand above his head. “I’m fine, I’ve got it.” He snapped viciously, and watched the stunned myriad of emotions cross over the officer’s face. Not bothering to see what reaction she would end up with, he put the phone back to his ear. He placed a fist to his chest to rub and ease his breathing. It hardly worked. Something was different, something was wrong…

_Focus Holmes, just focus…For John._

“ _SHERLOCK_!” He heard Lestrade boom, no doubt attempting for nearly a minute to get his attention over the line.

“I’m here,” he replied with a clear of his throat.

_“My God, you are just impossible—Listen to me, there isn’t any time for this nonsense. I need you to tell me where John’s hoard is.”_

Sherlock stared into the distance, rooted to the spot. “What?” He asked without inflection.

 _“The… his_ hoard _, Sherlock. Nothing else is working—“_

Nothing else? “What are you talking about? Gold and—“

“ _I_ know _, Sherlock. Don’t you think they know? That they tried that? They said it only works if a dragon hasn’t claimed a hoard, and since it’s not working… I imagine it’s a small collection, what with his age… Just tell me what to look for and I’ll swing by Baker Street and grab it.”_

Sherlock felt numb, looking down into the wet grass. “Grab…”

_“Grab a piece. Just… they just need one bit, not the whole lot. Is it uh, mugs or ehm, I don’t know…”_

He looked to Sally. Her face was an unreadable mask. “Where are you parked?”

Without a word, she turned and began to fast-walk back up the knoll. Sherlock was quick to follow.

“I’ve got it.”

_“What’s that now?”_

“I have it. I have it… with me.” Not a lie, exactly. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’m driving so…Ten.” Sally corrected dispassionately as they reached a leveled area.

“Ten minutes.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock tossed the phone back to Sally. With a catch, she simply nodded as they both began to jog to the street level.

* * *

 

 

They reached the basement floor of the hospital within twelve minutes, and as he stepped off the lift, Sally remained behind, motioning to the left. “Down the hall, then make a left. You should see the officer just before you reach the room. Lestrade should be there.”

Sherlock nodded silently, giving her a curious look.

Sally snorted. “Got to get back to my job, Holmes. A crime scene to view. Poachers to catch. You know the drill.” With that, the lift doors closed.

He made his way beyond an officer, one who clearly recognized him as he was given a nod of acknowledgement as he strode by. Just down his line of sight, were Lestrade and an older Indian woman. She held a clipboard, large glasses hanging low on her face. She noticed him first before Lestrade and nudged the Inspector.

“Sherlock, this is Dr. Mehta. She's John’s primary at this clinic.”

Yes, Sherlock had recalled her name on the registration papers. His eyes flicked up and down her frame. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, hello.” The physician had extended her hand, her expression grim. Sherlock looked at the proffered hand and scowled.

“Where is John? Are you treating him properly this time?”

The woman scoffed, dropping her clipboard and pen to a table to her right, instantly on the defense. “Mr. Holmes, we the take utmost care of—“

“You wouldn’t see to him when he was shot protecting me,” Sherlock stated furiously. The doctor pressed her lips together and pulled back, clearly flabbergasted by his anger. He shot Lestrade a filthy look, who also seemed surprised by his sudden outburst. “Where were you people then, hm?” He continued. “I had to take care of him. _Me_. You only sent him back home with a few stitches and some _useless_ antibiotics—“

“Mr. Holmes, he wasn’t registered at that time. It’s against policy to treat wild—“

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence,” Sherlock snarled and the doctor took a step away right as he felt Lestrade extend his arm, placing it firmly across the detective’s chest.

“Sherlock, you best knock this shit off right now,” The Inspector said low into his ear. “John is a witness and a... a victim. And this— whatever this is—is not helping him nor the case, a’right? I’m saying that as a friend. So don’t make me say it again as an officer. Take. It. Easy.”

Clenching his teeth, Sherlock could only nod as the man dropped his arm away from him.

“Now, you said you brought it,” Lestrade gave a motion down the hall, to where John’s room would be.

The doctor brushed a hand down her coat, recovering, and gave a nod. “Yes, if we’re to receive a piece of his cache, it’ll help immensely. He’s fairly … agitated.”

That seemed like quite the understatement. Sherlock took a deep inhale.

“I’ll need to see him.”

“Ehm, no…” she paused. “No, you don’t understand. We can’t allow anyone to enter, it’s just too dangerous. We drop what we need to through a grate in—“

“No,” Sherlock interrupted calmly. “His hoard… I…I’m going to need you to let me into that room.”

“Sherlock, what is the issue now?” Lestrade demanded, and Sherlock turned and simply stared silently at the man.

The perplexed expression on the inspector’s face twisted immediately to that of understanding and even swifter, to rage. Sherlock had already steeled himself.

“You God damn IDIOT!” Lestrade all but shouted. The doctor jumped and put a startled hand to her chin, glasses nearly sliding off her face.

“Now wait—“ Sherlock began.

“You? _YOU_?” Lestrade’s face was red with utter bafflement and the slow ebbs of anger. Sherlock could see the dawning of realization finally make its pass to the physician between them. “You bloody _moron_! Have you any god damn idea—“

“Lestrade—“

“—how foolish, how STUPID, how _dangerous_ , it is to let yourself be the possession of a dragon? You are a living, breathing man, not some _thing_ to be stuffed into a display case—“

“I’m aware of the—“ Sherlock attempted again. He glared at the doctor, who appeared dangerously close to giving her own opinion.

“Mr. Holmes, are you to say you’re—“

“Yes he bloody well is!” Lestrade’s hands were now on his hips, thumbs digging into the sides of his belt.

“That’s… highly unusual…” the doctor began.

“No shit! God damn it. _Jesus_ , Sherlock. Have you lost your mind!?”

He grit his teeth. “It wasn’t exactly like I had a choice in the matter—“

“Oh, like that even—“ Lestrade began loudly.

“Sirs!”

“Shut up, the both of you!” Sherlock shouted. “Are you going to let me into that room, or will I have to force myself in there?”

“Absolutely not, Sherlock. That,” Lestrade pointed two fingers down the hallway, “is not John in there. That is a hurting, frightened creature who nearly took out three of my officers to bring him in here. I understand there is a difference between that and the John we know, but in this moment it’s just—“

“He will not _hurt_ me, Lestrade. He’ll recognize _me_ —”

“Oh! Because you’re his bloody _possession_?” Greg spat right back.

“YES!” Sherlock snarled.

Lestrade flinched and stared, jaw jutted and strained as if it might snap off at any moment.

Sherlock continued, shaking and unable to stop speaking. There was now a hammering in his head. An incessant pound. “He is mine. He is _mine_ and you will let me have access to what is _mine_ immediately.”

He turned to the doctor, lightly touching her shoulder. She twitched at his touch, eyes wide. “You’ll let me in there, alright? You need to. You must.”

“I… we don’t let people into the rooms, not even staff. Not when they are in such a state…We wait until they are calmed—”

“Tell him,” Sherlock motioned to the DI. “Tell him that John won’t hurt me. That they don’t hurt what they deem theirs.”

“Well I… I-I mean, n-no. No I suppose they don’t.”

“The other items aren’t working, correct? The gold? Gems and the like? They had worked before but not since… Since we… They are not healing. It’s because he needs me.” Sherlock pointed. “He needs _me_.”

“I—“ She paused, clearly confounded. She looked down the hall and gave a deep breath, before looking to Lestrade. “Detective Inspector, I don’t believe you have authority in these halls. I believe I have to—” she glanced at Sherlock irritably. “I must do what is in the best interest of my patient.” She stated firmly, albeit a tad reluctantly.

Lestrade made a furiously frustrated noise, scrubbing a hand over two-day old stubble and backing away from the two of them. The doctor worried her bottom lip as she led Sherlock to the main door. She was clearly doing her best to ignore the irritated officer behind them and focus on Sherlock.

“Y-you should know,” the Dr. Mehta began quietly, only for Sherlock’s ears. “That traumatic injuries, traumatic events… It can change them. It can break a glamour ability completely if traumatizing enough. It can revert them back to something ...other. I just…I just want you to be prepared.”

He knew this, of course. But he also knew John. He merely nodded in acknowledgement.

There were two doors to the room holding John. One was roughly two-and-a-half meters, the right size for a human being. The other operated more like a large garage gate. Sherlock eyed that one warily, trying not to at all visualize several men and women attempting to pull and yank John through that particular door. The thought was utterly repugnant.

“Mr. Holmes, you’ll both be under observation for your own safety. When he is sufficiently calmed and we receive a body heat readout that is stable, we’ll look to treat his wounds properly. We also have injections to aid with the glamour process after he is treated, should that be necessary.”

The word ‘injection’ made him grimace. Silvered eyes were upon her at once as Sherlock processed this information. “It won’t be necessary but...I understand what you’re saying. I’ve… It’ll be fine. We will be fine.”

She only nodded silently before pressing her keycard against the door panel.

* * *

 

John was so… small. Especially compared to the size of the room he was placed in. Brittle. That was the word which leapt to his mind immediately.

It upset Sherlock, more than he could ever say, more than he could even articulate, to see his hide so exposed, the scales down his spine clearly flayed right from his flesh, plates ripped from around his shoulder. Two slender horns, pearled and smooth, had once speared from the top of John’s crown, elegantly curving down the length of his head.

It took only but a glance and Sherlock flinched, feeling ill, feeling fury, as one horn was now cracked and ugly, serrations peppering down one side, a clumsy attempt at sawing. The other was peeled, as if the poachers realized that cutting was too time consuming, and had resorted to slicing down the length instead, as if stripping bark from a sapling.

His great wings remained pressed to his sides, hooking protectively around his chest and belly.  Sherlock’s heart clenched painfully at the tattered threads and slits of them he could see.

Blood was browning on paled scales.

John lay on his side, curled as he had been on the sand, tail looped and placed neatly over his eyes. His instinctual way of making himself as compact and as unnoticed as possible. His breaths were thick, labored, belly rising and falling in deep swells. Sherlock approached with careful yet deliberate steps. Looking to the floor, it was littered with gold coins—plain and small, and utterly useless. A few catches of red caught his eye—rubies, which lay completely ignored by the dragon tucked in the corner. As he grew near, John’s eyes suddenly flew open with an impossibly quick flick.

The man’s breath caught and he froze, primitive brain sparking as he was snared in a predator’s gaze. The eyes before him were not John’s, but of a _dragon’s_. A thin black slit of an iris centered a galaxy of blues and golds, pointed and untrusting. Sherlock had a quick impulse to raise his hands, bare his palms, yet he remained paralyzed. However, the whispered word— _John_ —managed to slip through his lips without any conscious thought.

The cat-slivered eyes expanded black at the word, the voice, swallowing all color and the dragon attempted to stand suddenly, back haunches rising. It was too quick, too fluid; a body movement that wasn’t John’s own. Just as quick, the dragon made a noise in pain as raw skin and open lesions were pulled taut as his body moved.

“No, wait. I’m to you, John. Wait.” Sherlock kept his tone friendly, soothing, approaching until he stood next to his dragon, could feel the great heat of pain and fever emanate from his body. “I’m here, John. I’m here.” He placed his palm along John’s jawline, tracing under his chin. He felt the dragon sag into his touch and Sherlock hated himself as the quietest strand of doubt he held was effectively smothered by the gentle compliance. John wouldn’t hurt him. Would never hurt him. How could he ever, ever doubt.

The room was large, at least seven meters high as well as across, with sterile white walls. Although the lighting was dim, it was also harsh. It made John look thinner, more angled, than Sherlock knew him to be, jutting out his bones and the spines of his back. His once polished, golden scales were dulled and paled in the sharp contrast. Sherlock continued to stroke what he knew to be safe zones, areas with no damage. He smoothed the pad of his thumb around the crest of John’s eye, stroked a hand against his cheek and throat.

Slowly and very, very carefully, Sherlock felt a large, clawed-paw gently curl around him, encompassing both his legs with one grasp and tug, just a bit, forward. Glancing down, the detective felt his mouth twitch at the small burst of affection that flourished deep in his chest, as John tugged again, carefully, wishing him closer.

“I’m here,” Sherlock repeated, and he soon found himself on the floor, legs folded beneath him, knees immediately aching against the cold, unforgiving flooring. John’s slender neck curved around him, bringing his head to rest in Sherlock’s lap. The detective focused on breathing, deep and even, keeping a steady and comfortable hand against John’s throat, which was working hard under his touch. Struggling. Stressed. Against his palm, he could feel the dragon’s pulse spike rapidly in sudden panic and his muzzle opened before snapping twice in anxiety.

He realized John was trying to speak and he couldn’t.

“We’re fine. You’re okay.” Sherlock forced himself to say, still keeping his tone light, his voice calm, stroking his palm gently through what unbroken scales he could find. “You’re okay. We’re safe, John. We’re safe. I’m still yours. You’re still mine,” he whispered. With the constant, steady stream of words, John appeared gradually lulled, easing against Sherlock, eyes slowly closing.

Sherlock was hyperaware of many things—the tremendous heat from John’s body, the broken horns and chipped scales, the hard concrete ground, the persistent humming of a fan overhead— but nothing more so than the gun he felt pressed against his back. Sherlock knew he didn’t need it anymore.

These humans would receive much, much worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SenoraKitty for the wonderful fanart! ;_;


	9. Chapter 9

_You selfish, **selfish** , bastard._

It’s the singular thought churning through Sherlock’s mind, over and over like an obsessive wheel.

Over an hour since entering the recovery room and his legs ache something terrible, from both the running and the concrete flooring. His damp coat clings to his body, the wet wool of it itchy against his forearms and neck. He has considered multiple times toeing off his wet, mud-caked shoes but thought better of it, as to do so would require him to move away from John.

John, who is hurt, who is weeping blood from torn scales, who is in pain and panic and who is now seeking to trust Sherlock’s cautious touch for comfort.

And all Sherlock can focus on are hideous, murderous thoughts.

_Selfish selfish selfish!_

He smooths a palm down the unmarked surface of John’s long neck, a repetitive movement he’s observed to be both pleasurable and relaxing to the dragon. However John suddenly shifts, tense and wincing, muzzle opening in a brief snarl of discomfort. Sherlock pauses, lifting his hands away. He turns his head to catch John’s tail sweeping in agitation. Gems skitter across the room at the movement.

“You’re okay,” he repeats, again and again, as he had done for the past hour. A soothing tone that settles John once more.

 _How much longer will this_ take _? You have a case to finish. You have people to hunt. It’s not done. You’re not_ done _, Holmes. There’s a case to be solved._

Sherlock wants to strike himself as the stream of thought once again pierces.

 _Focus, please, on John, on this right now, this moment, he needs you,_ please _._

He can’t.

The gun is so solid against his back, it’s almost the only thing he can feel.

They’re out there, free. Free to sell the pieces they cut from his dragon. His brain kicks into a higher drive at the visuals, and he can feel the hate so sharply it nearly cuts him in two.

_You selfish, **selfish** , miserable bastard._

 

* * *

 

On the fifth hour, Sherlock awoke with a start, his head jerking forward and hands instinctively tightening around the body in his arms.

A body much, much smaller than he was anticipating and feeling of cotton and wool, instead of scale.

“John.”

 

* * *

 

“They were worried about your glamour,” Sherlock began, feigning nonchalance, after another hour of general prattling. He had not yet been given any verbal response from John, but the other was listening, eyes wandering on occasion like a shell-shocked victim. “The doctors stated that some traumatic events can lead to them being permanently destroyed. I hadn’t been worried though. Clearly.”

Sherlock watched the other work his jaw slowly before, “You weren't worried?” It was quiet, speech slightly raspy, but most certainly human. The relief of hearing John’s voice was overwhelming, but Sherlock merely sniffed and waved a dismissive hand.

“No, of course not. You’re John Watson.”

John’s eyes narrowed at this, eyebrows drawing together. He goes quiet for another minute, and Sherlock waited, allowing him time to reorient.

“Twelve. And uh. Waiter.” John says quietly in his arms. “Twelve.”

Sherlock waits for more, but nothing comes. He brings a hand to John’s back and strokes down his now clothed spine. “Twelve what?” He asks gently.

“I’m…” The other’s voice warbles, confused. “I’m not sure. It seems... important. And the, waiter. I was…walking. Twelve. It’s for you.”

Worry begins to edge its way into Sherlock’s consciousness. John wasn’t making sense, but seemed to think he was. He casts a glance at the door, ready and waiting for doctors to come bursting in at any moment. But no one does. He keeps his hand moving along John’s back, up and down. John doesn’t object.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“E-egg. And egg.”

Oh. Clarity.

“Twelve steps down to the park entry point from the street you were being lead through, and a witness waiter from the restaurant you were taken from by the pregnant sister. You were keeping track of all the details for me.”

John nodded and somehow Sherlock found a small smile. “Very good John.”

“Don’t condescend me you wanker,” John grimaced as he shifted on the floor, sitting up.

Sherlock snorted. That sounded a bit more like the John Watson he knew.

 

* * *

 

It’s confounding surreal and fascinating, watching and physically feeling a fully clothed, seemingly unharmed John Watson slowly come around and sit up in the large specialty room. It never ceased to amaze the detective the intricacies and mystery around a dragon and their glamour.

“You’ll heal, John. I need you to know that you’ll heal and recover. At your age it’ll just take a bit of time—“

As John’s face crumples at his words and he quickly looks away, the words die in Sherlock’s throat. He’s no idea why that fact would upset him, but he doesn’t test further.

“Right well,” Sherlock stands, feeling his knees pop at the stretch. “I believe I could be in need of a shower. Are you quite ready to go home now?”

John stared at Sherlock outstretched hand, before bringing his eyes up. “Alright.” He said nodded.

At the time, Sherlock had not noticed the wary way John looked at him.

 

* * *

 

John was angry. The silence coming from him told him as much.

It had only been a day, but Sherlock was on intense edge. John had been released against medical advice, based solely on the fact he would not allow himself to be examined by the medical team in his dragon form. He wanted no one, save Sherlock, to touch him even in his glamour. Dr. Mehta was beyond agitated at his uncooperative attitude, glaring at Sherlock as if the man could change John’s mind. He hadn’t even bothered, he had enough evidence to know any of his suggestions in this regard would go unheeded.

But now at home, John moved slowly, wincing in his glamour at any sudden twist in his upper body. He’d snarl unexpectedly at the pain while in the kitchen, making his third cup of tea. He spent nearly the entire day alone in his bedroom. Sherlock ordered lunch, but it had gone ignored and uneaten by John. He assumed the other needed some time alone to reflect and recover. Neither of them seemed to have an immediate desire to leave the flat, and Sherlock fiddled with his mobile, waiting for a call or even a text from Lestrade with additional information on the family. He wished to join their manhunt, but the mantra of _John first_ kept him steady and at home, for the time being.

John was clearly furious. Sherlock too, felt hated at this family. He couldn’t blame John in the slightest.

When night fell, Sherlock moved to his bedroom, changing into sweatpants and a t-shirt, he left its light on, and climbed atop the covers. He waited.

An hour went by. Then two. He could hear John, a creak from old floorboards just above his head, shift in the first noise from the room in half-a-day. He felt stressed, waiting for John to descend the steps, to join him as he'd always done and needed to do to reaffirm their connection, to heal any wounds and to calm anxieties.

He could hear John pace just above him, back and forth, and by the third hour, he knew. He knew John was actively fighting his impulse and desire to join him. 

It wasn't his attackers that John was furious at and Sherlock's dread was indescribable. 

 

* * *

 

In the morning, anxiety had settled like a sharp pit in Sherlock's gut. He hadn't slept, let alone found adequate rest. The knowledge of John not joining him, of actively refusing his instincts, worried him beyond any measurement. When he finally saw dawn break through his blinds, he heard John come down his steps, making his way to the kitchen. 

When he mustered the courage to leave his bedroom, each step felt heavier than the last to the kitchen threshold. John was in the middle of pouring himself tea, and briefly, their eyes met. Sherlock knew he could only stand there and wait for the inevitable. 

Delicately, and with infinite calm, John snapped the kettle back onto its base on the counter. He was tired, and strained, weak with pain but utter resolved to not take comfort in his own hoard, and that knowledge was perhaps worse than any words he could possibly say to the man. 

“All that’s happened has been your fault, Sherlock.”

The blunt sentence slit into Sherlock’s chest so abruptly it took the wind straight out of his body.

Somehow, he managed to softly say in a breath, “What?”

John’s eyes were focused and dark, no longer any shade of blue Sherlock was familiar with. 

“I said that this is all your fault. Everything. Everything, Sherlock.”

“I—“

“Ever since that building. That building you had us go into. You wouldn’t leave when I told you danger was coming. You hardly even believed me—“

The man’s mind raced, trying to follow. “The—the building…?”

“The building that stared this all. The building we were searching for I don’t even know why, because you never told me. The building where I shattered and burned and I don’t even remember. I don’t even _remember_ , Sherlock. But I burned it to the ground to save you.”

“John—“

“And the beach. Couldn’t wait, could you? You couldn’t wait one bloody second before you went—“

“—please—“

“—straight into that crowd and got yourself into harm’s way and I, **I** , had to save you. Again. After I told you to wait for me. But you didn’t. You never do. So I shattered _again_ and was bloody _shot_ and in turn revealed everything private to the entire world because you couldn’t _listen_. Because you can never do the one thing that I ever ask of you which is to stay safe. Why don’t you listen to me? _Why_ , Sherlock?”

Stunned, Sherlock stood, legs like lead. What could he say? There was nothing. He was right. There was nothing that came to mind but an overwhelming seeded fear in his chest.

Perhaps the most frightening, was the simple fact John was clearly furious, but wasn’t shouting. John’s voice was level and composed. He’d prefer the shouting. He’d prefer if John took that kettle and chucked it to the wall. This clear calm was terrifying.

John was waiting now, staring at him. He’d asked a question and Sherlock’s mind fumbled. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“Sherlock, why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t accept that.”

John’s voice was sharper, and Sherlock could only shake his head. “I’m… Because. Because… I’m not…”

Now, they were doing this _now_? At all? Ever? Sherlock could feel both hands begin to tremor, a familiar sensation right before needing a hit. An escape. How was he meant to deal, to answer, to repair what seemed to be breaking? He didn’t know how. His fingers itched, he needed some. Anything. A cigarette. Just a small fix...

“Stop thinking about that.”

“You’ve no idea what’s going on in my head!” Sherlock exploded, feeling every molecule bristle in defense.

“Right, because I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock reached for the counter, snatching something which felt like ceramic and threw it against the wall. It shattered. Well, _someone_ had to throw something.

“You want to know why?” He was shaking now as he wheeled to John. There was so much pressure in his mind, there’s was an unreal quality to everything now. “Why? _Why_? Because I’ve never had to be thoughtful to the concern or opinions of another individual because I’ve never _had_ anyone, John. I’ve never had anyone desire to be in my presence, to desire to be my friend. I’ve only ever been alone. I’ve never had anyone I’ve had to ‘listen’ to, someone who I knew to care, truly care, about my well-being with no ulterior motives. I’ve never trusted anyone, not even myself. I’ve never had anyone, ever, in my life say to me ‘oh yes, you, I choose you, you seem like a good lot’ and then stay, actually _stay_ with me. I don’t know how to be a friend, let alone a good one. I don’t know how to grasp the concept of someone wanting me or needing me or lo—“ _Oh stop, please stop stop stop stop._

His heart clenched at the head rush of confessions, and although he bared it all before John, staring directly at the other, he couldn’t see him through the haze of it all. Couldn’t catalog his reaction or even his expression.

“Sherlock, sit down.”

Sherlock registered John was moving toward him, and when he blinked away what he horrifically realized were near-tears he could see John’s expression was one of true concern, as if his earlier anger had been ebbed away. Sherlock felt a soft, warm touch on his wrist as John led him a few steps backward to his chair.

“Just sit, sit down please…”

“I should have saved you,” he rasped as he was seated, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “I couldn’t even _find_ you. That couldn’t even be _me_. I couldn’t even—“

“Sherlock. Hey. Oh…” John went to kneel and winced in pain, and Sherlock recalled the moment in Kali Keyton’s flat. How despite her flawless human form, her dragon ached. Now _his_ dragon ached. Anger flared inside Sherlock’s chest. He'd kill them. John’s fingers still rested around his wrist, before trailing up his forearm.

“It should have been me, shouldn’t it have? The one who saved you, that’s how this is supposed to go…I can do better, John. I can find them. I will—“

Sherlock stopped abruptly as he noticed John’s eyes, blown dark at high tide. And he realized oh, they were touching…finally… skin to skin. John’s chest heaved in great gulps of air as his hand trailed across from Sherlock’s forearm to his chest and belly before resettling on his arm, his available, bare skin. The man could feel a tremendous uptick in his pulse as he felt John’s other hand curl around his left calf, slipping under his pantleg and gripping, as if looking to lock him down.

No one had ever touched him so intimately, and it burned through the base of his spine up through his nape.

And oh, how John noticed. How he fought against an unnamable impulse. Sherlock could see it in his eyes, feel it in his breathing, see it in his body language. His dragon wanted nothing more than to crawl up to him, curl into him, envelope him whole and covet his body and Sherlock nearly groaned pleasurably at the very thought.

Searching frantically for words, Sherlock quietly found two. “You can.”

John’s eyes snapped up from the man’s neck to his eyes and there was a frightening but also thrilling moment where Sherlock had no idea where any of this might possibly go.

“ **Can what**.”

“Anything.”

John didn’t move, but Sherlock could feel the strength of his hands on his leg and his arm, and there was a moment of realization at the surreal power imbalance. John was still lowered, knelt at Sherlock’s feet, but could effectively rip him in two if he truly desired.

With John pressed up against his leg, he could feel his massive heartbeat against his shin. It filled him with want. Want for anything. Anything from John in this moment would be enough.

“You think I only found you interesting after I found out what you were,” Sherlock said quietly, watching John’s dark eyes track his every movement. They could not be trapped in a more intimate moment. Where his fingers once itched for a smoke, they twitched at the simple idea of reaching out to touch John’s face, his hair, his neck… He could, and John would allow it. Lean into it. He craved his skin, his touch, even if he struggled to accept this desire. Because John too was an addict in his own right, seeking his fix from his hoard. The mere thought filled Sherlock's body with satisfied pleasure, even if a small part of him knew he should be horrified.

 _You’re mine. You’re_ mine _._

Lightheaded from his earlier cathartic confessions, Sherlock wanted, he needed, to say. “You were interesting at Angelo’s. You were invaluable at Baskerville. But you were mine the moment you stepped into Bart’s. You have always been mine, John. I will do better and I will keep you safe. That is my vow to you. You are **mine**.”

The admission left him shaky with cleansing relief, which was abruptly swept away as John recoiled and Sherlock felt hands release from his body.

Suddenly terrified, snapping from whatever had taken hold, Sherlock sat up straight in his seat, looking to reach for John, to touch, to… something. Something to make it better.

“John—?”

“Don’t.” John barked as he stood, his left leg stiff and body shaky and Sherlock’s eyes followed his movement, his heart hammering in his ears. He got it wrong. How does he always get it wrong? How?

“What did you just say?” John’s eyes are wide, clear but confused.

Sherlock faltered, wondering how _that_ last statement could be incorrect, after so many declarations to each other.

“You’re mine. I’m… I’m yours,” he said quietly, feeling fearful, wondering what could have possibly changed.

“That’s not … how you … I…” Distraught, John shook his head, as if trying to clear out so many thoughts. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening—“

“I’m sorry. John, I’m sorry.” It was too much. Idiot. _Idiot_. Selfish idiot.

Sherlock snapped to his feet, lurching from the chair following John to the stairs.

“John, please.”

“Don’t. Something… something’s _wrong_.” John seethes out the word quietly, his gaze down to the floorboards as if he can’t bear to look at the man. “Don’t leave this building. The flat. I’ll… I’ll _know_. I’ll…I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I won’t.”

“You stay. I’m sorry. You can’t. I-I can’t—“

“John,” Sherlock interrupts. John closes his mouth. His eyes are dark and wet and just this far from wild. He takes another infinitesimally small motion towards the stairs of his bedroom, looking to escape what is clearly uncomfortable. He looks miserable, defeated, as if expressing his desire for Sherlock to stay is beyond mortifying, especially after all he’s just done and said. His forehead is brimming with sweat, and Sherlock is brought back to the time when John held a horrible fever in their bed, battling infection and pain. It’s ludicrous, how badly he wants to touch, knowing it’ll soothe and yet knowing even more how much it would be rejected.

“John, I promise you, I am not leaving. I will not. I’ll be here, just downstairs. If you need m—anything.” He ends quickly, but he takes steps towards John, wishing to follow.

“I want.” John stops and shakes his head, not trusting himself to continue.

“I know,” Sherlock nods gently, and John gives him another faltering look before continuing up the steps. Sherlock waits until he hears the click of his door. He lets out a breath which comes out as a quiet snarl.

**“I want you too.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so busy with real life... I felt so guilty not having this updated. I know it's not the final chapter but it's SOMETHING.... right? Right...? :(


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